I'M 



nrTuTii 







Class _B.i3_5^1 



Book _jd_a^.5JZ.4:__ 
Copyright N" 

COPVRIGHT DEPOSrr 




BY 

CLIFFORD PHILLIPS 



PRIVATELY PRINTED 



PHILADELPHIA. PA. 
1913 






CorVRIOHT, 10 1 ^ 1!Y 

CLU'TORl") riiiLLirs 

All rights reserved 



WICKFRSIIAM rRINTlNG CO., 
LANCASrUK, I'A. 



OCI.A.S5 1 141 



DEDICATION 

The world can well dispense with a book of rhymes 
written by the average versifier. There seems no real 
necessity for a book like this: its author — who is hardly 
entitled to be classed among the average versifiers — does 
wrong, no doubt, in issuing it. Yet these rhymes are not 
actually intended for the world at large, but only, nu- 
merically speaking, for an insignificant portion of it — the 
volume, in fact, having been designed for the writer's own 
amusement and the amasement also of a few, a very few 
of his most patient and most friendly acquaintances. 
Such being the case, the remarks made here need not take 
on too apologetical a turn. But one in a preface mast 
not be unduly discursive. So now for the dedication. 
Dedication! Is it necessary? To whom should it be? 
Here comes trouble. 

When an amateur in the literary line writes a book, 
particularly a book of poetry, it is customary to dedicate 
it to somebody ; he who has compiled for publication this 
volume of (alleged) poems experiences a difficulty in ob- 
serving such a cu.stom. In the course of more than fifty 
years — having passed, some time ago, the half-century 
mark on life's way — the writer has made some friends 
and possibly some enemies; at first he could scarcely tell 
to which one in the former or to which one in the latter 
class he might with the greater propriety inscribe the 
comparatively few productions of his mase that seemed 
from certain associations, rather than from any sup- 
posed merits, to be worth presenting. 



IV DEDICATION. 

A friend (not a deadly foe, as would naturally be sur- 
mised) once advised the writer to bring out his verses in 
book form; the writer, however, is alone responsible for 
this publication, it is not his intention to shift the blame 
on any one else ; but that kindly friend's well-meant and 
unforgotten advice (though very likely it would not have 
been followed had it conflicted with the writer's purpose) 
suggested a way out of the dedicatory quandary. To this 
one, then, who once showed a passing interest in his effu- 
sions, it seems somewhat suitable to dedicate a collection 
of rhymes intended for distribution among those of the 
writer's acquaintances and friends likeliest, in his opin- 
ion, to take an interest in at least a few of the perhaps 
too many rhythmical compositions that have been gath- 
ered. 

And so this book of verses, composed in some of the 
infrequent leisure intervals of a more or less busy exist- 
ence, extending over a period of time commencing with 
the year 1874 and closing with this of 1912, is dedicated 
to the one who first suggested it — that is, to Maud. 

Philadelphia, December 31, 1912. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Dedication 

Dedicatory Verses 19 

In the Starlight. Published in " Fireside Companion," Janu- 
ary 22, 1877 21 

One Day. Written in 1877 21 

Remembrance. Published in " Munro's Girls and Boys of 

America," February 10, 1877 22 

At Early Morning Time. " The Boomerang," July, 1885 . . 23 
Retrospection. " Munro's Girls and Boys of America," Feb- 
ruary 17, 1877 24 

The Lament of a Village Poet. Written in 1876 24 

Free Agency 26 

I've ever Loved. Published in " Odd Fellows' Siftings," May, 

1886 27 

Factory Life. Written in 1877 29 

Dolly's Album. Written in 1876 29 

Dolly's Holly. Written in 1876 31 

My Doings. Written in 1883 32 

Discreet 34 

A Mild Homily on Drink 34 

Stars. Published in "The Orpheum News," Feb. 17, 1908. 35 

Art. [An inspirational poem.] 36 

Florabella Fontaine 37 

Flossie Friskoe 38 

Considerate 39 

Queen of the Corps de Ballet 40 

Uncommunicative 40 

Actor McGrane. Published in " The Orpheum News," Oct. 

19, 1908 41 

A Question. Published in " The Orpheum News," March 

30, 1908 42 

Our Erstwhile Friends 43 

An Appointment 43 

Vaudeville 44 

An Averment 45 



VI CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Beyond Control 46 

The Rejuvenescence of An Illinois Peach 46 

Atlantic City. Published in " Public Ledger," July 23, 1912. 48 

Opportunity 48 

St. Valentine. Published February 12, 1902 * 49 

A Name 49 

To the Day's Enthroned Saint. Published February 13, 1906. 50 

Memories 50 

A Needed Girl 51 

Themic Variety 5 1 

Two Souls 52 

Boldness 52 

Adaline 53 

A Bold Declaration. Published February 14, 1907 53 

This Day 54 

Fate's Book 54 

Her Smile 54 

Summer in Town. Published July 11, 1907 55 

Handicapped. Published April 7, igo8 56 

An Interruption. Published October 3, 1908 57 

A Billion. Published March 13, 1908 58 

Clotilda. Published September 28, 1904 58 

Woman. Published November 7, 1906 59 

Vulnerable Man. Published October 24, 1906 59 

Men's Hearts 60 

Her Heart 61 

Sustaining a Reputation 61 

An Invitation. Written in 1900 62 

A Strange Mystery 62 

I'll Sigh at Times. Written in 1898 63 

Indetermination 64 

A Sensible Girl 64 

A Poet's Theme 65 

My Age 67 

A Good Excuse 68 

Tell Me 69 

O Supposing ! 69 

* Most of the verses printed heretofore originally appeared in " The Evening Bul- 
letin " of Philadelphia. 



CONTENTS. Vll 

PAGE 

Night's Witching Hour 69 

Break of Day 69 

A Challenge 69 

Not a Fatal Malady. Published December 4, 1907 70 

Stay 70 

Unutterable Love 71 

Unuttered Thoughts 71 

" What's In a Name ? 72 

The Bachelor's Side Of It. Published June 29, 1904 73 

Danger 73 

An Elderly Bachelor's Chances 74 

Bestirring One's Self 75 

Epistolic Dissonance. Written in 1876 76 

Poetry. Published May 16, 1907 78 

Jane Brown 79 

Sadie Austin 80 

Friend Ferdinand 81 

A Lesson 83 

The Right Bait 84 

Repartee 84 

Practice. Published August 2, 1909 85 

Imagination. Published December 21, 1909 86 

A Foolish Question 86 

Forebodings 87 

My Finish 87 

On The Beach 88 

At The Shore 89 

'Tween Sales 90 

In Doubt. Published December 5, 1904 90 

The Wooing Of It 91 

A Plain Statement 92 

Diplomacy 92 

True Valor 92 

Something Learned 93 

Curbstone Musings. [A purposeful poem.] Written in 1884. 94 

Fawcett's Tree 96 

Dreams. Published October 14, 1910 97 

The Ship of State 97 

A Mystery 98 

The Friday Evening Reading Club. Written in May, 1883 . . 99 



vm CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Task. Written in October, 1883 103 

Platonic Friendship. Published November 17, 1904 no 

Aeronautics Ill 

To-morrow in 

Regarding Love. Written in 191 1 112 

Nineteen-Six. Published December 27, 1906 114 

Outdoors 114 

The Parting and The Coming Guest. Published Dec. 31, 1909. 115 

Spring. Published April 2, 1908 I15 

Springtime. Published April 4, 1905 116 

A New World 116 

Spring's Reign 117 

A Spring Day 118 

A Broken Resolution. Published May 6, 1909 I18 

Maybelle. Published September 16, 1903 119 

Beside the Sea. Published November 10, 1902 119 

A Memory. Published March 10, 1908 120 

A Day Recalled 121 

To Dorothy 122 

Childhood 123 

In a City Square 124 

Rittenhouse Square 125 

Minor Mishaps 126 

Riches 127 

Life's Hours 127 

A Little Critic 128 

Our Outing 129 

Chums 129 

The Lesson. Published in "Public Ledger," Aug. 19, 1911... 131 

Happiness 132 

Silent Speech. Published October 2, 1907 132 

Some Day 133 

Awaiting Her Coming 133 

The Earth I34 

A Deathless Song 134 

A Cheering Thought 135 

Foreordained 135 

Heaven's Gift 136 

A Woman's Heart 136 

Summer I37 



CONTENTS. IX 

PAGE 

Where Love Bides Not, Antoinette 137 

The Voice I'll Never Hear Again 138 

Sometime. Published July 13, 1909 138 

The Lake. Published October 16, 1902 139 

Love. Published January 20, 1905 139 

A Fisher Maiden. Published October 8, 1903 140 

A Premeditated Theft. Published July 21, 1910 140 

Christmas Time. Published December 23, 1903 141 

Faint Heart. Published December 20, 1905 141 

The Enigma of Life 142 

Amid The Gloom. Published December 4, 1902 142 

Vain Regrets. Published November 3, 1905 143 

When Time is Dead. Published January 23, 1906 143 

Meditations of a Bookkeeper. Published February 27, 1907. 144 

Her Song. Published February 12, 1901 145 

Amid The Crowd 145 

Alice. Published April 25, 1908 146 

When Alice Sings. Published January 12, 1903 147 

Enforced Silence. Written in 1884 148 

Loquacity 149 

Louise. Written in 1883 150 

When We Meet 151 

Sweet Sue. Published October 31, 1904 151 

A Modern Juliet. Published June 24, 1907 152 

They Who Love. Published November 12, 1907 152 

Ode to a Bee. Published June 4, 1908 IS3 

Rumors. Published September 8, 1909 154 

Not Alone. Published December 8, 1908 155 

A Violet. Published January 19, 1909 156 

Unforgotten 157 

Rhyme's Recompense. Published February 26, 1910 158 

Farewell. Published May 26, 1910 159 

Proximity 159 

Beauty 160 

Woman's Constancy 161 

Filial Love 162 

Show 162 

Longings. Published May 28, 1909 163 

The Sea. Published December 3, 1909 163 

Shakespeare. Published March 18, 1910 164 



X CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Unknown as Yet 164 

Won 165 

A Sonnet 165 

Winter. Written in December, igii 166 

Love's Day. Written in December, 19 11 166 

In Jersey. Published October 13, 1909 167 

A Life's History 167 

Why Need One Care ? 168 

My Poems 168 

Frankness 169 

By The Lake 169 

Little Sue 171 

Autumn. Published October 20, 1903 172 

Summer Days 172 

That Morning 1 73 

Susanna. Part of this published December i, 1908 174 

A Fall 176 

To Nellie 177 

Friends 177 

She Sang. Written in 1898 178 

No Longer Young 180 

Love a Bar to Success 181 

The Stimulus of Love 181 

Past Dreams Recalled 181 

The Belle of The Season. Written in 1898 182 

Joy 187 

AcROSTiCAL Section. — Pages 188 to 215 inclusive. 

On Life's Highway 188 

If in the Days to Come 188 

My Ideal 189 

A Dark-haired Divinity 189 

April 190 

May Day 190 

Bereft ,. 191 

By the Balustrade 191 

The Desolated Manse 192 

L'Envoi 192 

Day Dreams 193 



CONTENTS. XI 

PAGE 

The Ocean 193 

Lasting Love 194 

Christmas Day 194 

This Life 195 

To Those Who Wait 19S 

A Phantasy 196 

The Girls 196 

An Acrostical Adventurer 197 

Dream Knowledge 197 

A Modern Rosalind. Published in " The Orpheum News," 

December 23, 1907 198 

A Twilight Reverie 198 

Love's Quandary 199 

We Poor Men 200 

A Spinster. Written in 1876 200 

My Heart's Secret 201 

An Apparition 202 

'Neath Lowering Skies 202 

A Whispered Promise 203 

An Undaunted Spirit 203 

Lora 204 

That Heart of Mine 204 

A Dream 205 

Nota Bene 205 

A Plea for Cheerfulness. Written in May, 1897 206 

Ask Not Her Name 206 

A Vision 207 

A Lost Letter Restored. Written in 1899 208 

Maple Hall. Written July 15, 1C75 208 

A Valentine Offering. Written in 1879 209 

Juno's Swans. Written in 1903 209 

In Youth's Bright Time. Written in 1880 210 

A Twilight Retrospect. Written January i, 1876 210 

A Sunset on Corson's Inlet. Written September 8, 1910 211 

Sand Castles 212 

The Boy 212 

The Girl 212 

One Year Ago 213 

The Days That Were 213 

Sonnet 214 



XU CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Hope's Star 214 

Votes for Women 215 

Marching On 215 

A Dangerous Pilgrim 216 

My Maryland 216 

Finale 216 

Esthetics 216 

Impromptu Lines 217 

In Restraint of Flight 217 

The Past 218 

The Future. Published September 17, 1902 218 

Life's Road. Published February 23, 1904 218 

Fancy. Published February 10, 1909 219 

Air Castles 219 

Optimism. Published March 17, 1909 220 

A Lost World 220 

Hope 221 

Fate. Published August 20, 1909 221 

The Poets 222 

Knowledge 222 

Poet's Progress. Published March 29, 1909 223 

Pragmatic Psychology 223 

Parnassus. Published June 15, 1909 224 

A Poet's Soul. Published July 20, 1910 224 

Finale 225 

The Lady of Bethayres 225 

Day Dreaming 226 

No Quarrel 226 

The Pursuit of Happiness 227 

An Early Call 227 

A Cheering Afterthought 227 

Ambition 228 

Hopes, Dreams and Prayers 229 

Calumny. Published December 5, 1906 229 

Prelude 230 

Hell 231 

We Saints 235 

My Choice 235 

A Soul 236 

Why Worry ? 236 



CONTENTS. XIU 

PAGE 

The Vast Majodty 237 

Immortality 237 

Hell Again 238 

Man, or Conditional Immortality 238 

Spirit Seekers 238 

Spiritualism 239 

Unheeded Advice 240 

Dietetics, A Lenten Thesis 241 

Political Parsons 242 

Preachers, Police and Politics 243 

My Heaven. Published April 9, 1909 244 

Thoughts. Published December 28, 1906 245 

My Spirit's Flight. Published February 13, 1903 245 

Death. Published January 12, 1904 246 

A Prospective Ride 247 

Sure Things. Published February 7, 1910 247 

Faith. Published March 20, 1906 248 

Elegiac Lines 248 

Despondency 249 

Dead Friends 249 

A Puzzled Will. Published March 6, 1907 250 

Life. Published May 18, 1909 250 

Rest. Published January 13, 1909 251 

This Life 251 

Human Fortitude 252 

Benevolence. Published February 20, 1906 252 

Dissimulation. Published December 26, 1908 253 

God's Children 253 

Lines in Reply to Ella Wheeler Wilcox's " A Query ". Pub- 
lished July 29, 1908 254 

The Dead 254 

A Divinity. Published April 26, 1909 255 

Life's Battle 255 

Jewelry 256 

A Gem 257 

Jewels 258 

The Music of Other Days 260 

With Nature. Published February 13, 1906 260 

Outside The Gates. Published February 27, 1905 261 

Lilies 261 



XIV CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Nearing The End 262 

Love or Fear ? 262 

Living Again 262 

Seems Queer 263 

Life's Uncertainty 263 

If I Were Told 264 

Shall We E'er Know? 264 

My Fiftieth Birthday 265 

Encouragement 265 

Why Wait? 265 

Right Living 266 

No More of Death 266 

Individualism Versus Socialism 267 

Modern Religious Cults. Published May 9, 1910 267 

The Wicked World 268 

Duty's Call 269 

Some Day I'll Knov/ 269 

Concerning Creation. Published November 3, 1910 270 

Forgiveness 270 

Proselyting (with Postcript) 271 

Sect Enthusiasts 273 

Beatification Rites. Published in " Friend's Intelligencer," 

June 5, 1909 275 

No Joke. Published November 15, 1909 275 

The Higher Criticism 276 

Toleration 276 

Divorce 277 

Man's Part (with Envoy) 277 

Achieving Greatness 278 

Life's Ways 278 

Turning Over a New Leaf 279 

Sowing and Reaping 279 

Conversions 280 

The Smoker's Church 281 

Rhyme's Inefficacy 282 

Posterity 283 

The Redeemed 284 

A Socialist 285 

Humanity 286 

Abolishing Life's Evils 286 



CONTENTS. XV 



PAGE 

Socialism and Anarchism 287 

Liberty 2C2 

Necessities 202 

Buying Foreign Titles 293 

Probabilities of Another Life 204 

Religion and Science ^n. 

... -^^4 

Arbitration 2Qe 

Old Thoughts 2q6 

Some Reflections. Published September 21, 1909 297 

Assassins 207 

Wealth !.'"!!! ^ ^ !!'''"' 298 

Success 299 

War. In a letter to "Public Ledger," published June 23, 191 1. 300 
An Armed Peace. In a letter to " Public Ledger," published 

June 27, 1911 3QQ 

The Carmen's Strike. Published March 31, 1910 301 

My Name is Piatt ,03 

John E. Reyburn ,04 

A Strike ,-,- 

3^5 

A Veracious Narrative ^^5 

Woman Suffrage. In a letter ta "Public Ledger," published 

November 3, 1912 ,07 

An Unimportant Matter ,07 

Resourceful Woman ,08 

To Miss Margaret ,qq 

Doing It 211 

England and the United States 314 

Yelpers -.. 

^ 314 

Dreamy Drones ,ji. 

Good Intentions ,ji- 

A Letter. Published November 6, 1909 316 

My Ship 218 

Ghostly Visitors ,j8 

Flightiness ,10 

Fame's Instability ,10 

The Baconian Theory -2x9 

Friends All Friends 320 

Annette. Written in 1900 321 

Recovered ,22 

I Won't Tell Her Name ^323 



XVI CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

An Afternoon's Stroll. Written in 1902 326 

Pinafore Revised 328 

Art's Artifices 330 

Partnership Prospects 351 

Injustice 332 

My Beau 333 

A Cautious Man 336 

What's The Use ! 336 

Stanzas Sent Strokes' Seed Store. Written December 31, 1909. 337 

Rebuffed 340 

A Nautical Twist 340 

Jersey Fairs 341 

Lines to E. W. W 342 

Lines to A. L. T 342 

Was It Wrong ? 342 

My Artistic Soul. Published in " The Orpheum News," 

December 30, 1907 343 

Love's Sacrifice 343 

What Love Can Do 343 

A Woman's Ideal Man 344 

Solicitous Inquiries 344 

That Sweetheart of Mine 34S 

Fair Flossie 345 

Girls 346 

A Considerate Man 346 

Milton 346 

Some Simple Stanzas Sent Sarah Slimcoe 347 

Opera Passes 34^ 

Vague Vaporings 349 

At the Lunch Counter 349 

A True Tale 350 

Moralizing 351 

Diverse Views 352 

Strange 352 

A Lost Thought 353 

Supplied 353 

The Non-Essentiality of Thought in the Construction of 

Poetry 353 

Guilty or Not Guilty ? 354 

'Twas Never Meant 354 



CONTENTS. XVn 

PAGE 

A Warning 355 

A Tribute to Women 355 

Eternity 356 

I Do Not Know 356 

Foolishness 356 

To A. L. T. of " The Bulletin " 357 

The Mind 357 

A Cold World 358 

An Optimist 358 

Some Paraphrastical Lines 359 

Anticipation 359 

Tol-Rol-Lol-Loo 360 

Politeness Pays 360 

Preaching and Practicing 361 

Practical Philosophy 362 

Plainly Perceptible 362 

Polar Polemics 363 

Peary's Pre-eminence 364 

Personified Perfection 364 

Prefatorial Pleasantry. Written September 10, igio 365 

Philadelphia's Poetical Police. Written in May, 1910 370 

Pugilistic Pictures 373 

Precipitous Praise 374 

Dope 374 

Barbarians 375 

About A Bout 376 

The Colored Race. Published September 2, 1910 377 

On the Bleachers 379 

A Physician of the Modern School 379 

Syracuse Seminarians 380 

Blondes and Brunettes 381 

A Joy We All Might Know 381 

Youth's Aspirations 382 

A Tribute to Lord Alfred Tennyson 3S2 

News 383 

Our Dorothy 384 

She's Back! 385 

Youth 386 

Life's Evening 386 

A Grandson's Tribute to his Grandmother 387 



XVlll CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Academy 389 

These Days 389 

Solution of a Chess Problem. Written April 20, 1880 390 

A Poem in Prose. Published October 12, 1909 391 

Adam's Excoriation of Poets and their Productions 393 

An Answer. This and the Adam letter were both published 

in July, 1905 393 

Not Obligatory 395 

Astuteness 395 

A Silent Harp 396 

Just Deserts 396 

Needs and Wants 397 

Poesy's Essentials 397 

The Pen 397 

Insufficient Space 39^ 

Miss * * * * * 398 

Deferred Laurels 39^ 

Hat Hanging Harpies 399 

Hilarious Happenings 399 

Hazardous Heights 399 

Humorists 400 

The Reality of the Unreal 4°° 

Prologue 401 

Gwendolen McKnett 402 

A Model Man. Written in 1898 468 

No Mourning 4^5 

Seedsmen and Poets 4^5 

Uncommitted Sins. Written in 191 1 486 

Time to Stop. Written in 1912 4^7 

An Autobiographical Sketch. Written in 1912 488 

Last Lines ' 4^9 



DEDICATORY VERSES. 

I never was a poet, though 

There was, dear Maud, a time 
When I allowed my thoughts to flow 

In unrestricted rhyme. 

Foolish ? Well, yes : and really, Maud, 

I should know better now — 
Now when so many years have scored 

Their traces on my brow. 

When I first imitated " Keats ", 

And imprudently soared 
In Poesy's realms (of all rash feats 

The very rashest, Maud,) 

I was, as you may well suppose, 

A juvenile : one who 
Deemed his ideas too great for prose, 

Hence only verse would do. 

Yes, I was young and life seemed fair ; 

I sang because, forsooth, 
One must whose heart is free from care, 

As all hearts are in youth. 

And so I sang, and oft I sought 

The Muse's aid, and she 
(Though rhyming scarcely seemed my forte) 

At times was kind to me. 



20 DEDICATORY VERSES. 

Yes, Maud, I sang ; as well one might 

Who has no cause for tears. 
In youth's glad morning hearts are light : 

Grief comes in later years. 

My verses very likely bored 
Those who perused them then : 

Surely I should know better, Maud, 
Than to offend again. 

But yet this night my fancy strays 

Back to youth's time : I find 
The vagrant verses of past days 

Still linger in my mind. 

Those days I wooed the Muse ! Ah ! Maud, 

If I just write a few 
Of the old rhymes in memory stored. 

And dedicate to you 

The little book containing them, 

I'm sure that no one in 
The wide world will my act condemn : 

Though foolish, 'tis no sin. 

While memory retains her seat 

Within my brain, while my 
Heart throbs I'll not forget those sweet 

Friendships of days gone by. 

So, Maud, to you, where'er you are, 

I dedicate this night 
The book of rhymes that you in far 

Off days told me to write. 



IN THE STARLIGHT. 21 

Beneath the stars that shone o'erhead 
We strolled, a fair young maid and I, 

Unheedful where our footsteps led, 
Unheeding time that glided by. 

We talked the while, yet seemed to stray 

O'er topics of a careless kind ; 
Although a deeper subject lay, 

As yet untold, within my mind. 

Howe'er the twinkling stars above 
Seemed urging me, as on we strolled, 

To ope my mind ; I did — and love, 
That old, old tale again was told. 

Oh, happy walk ! Oh, happy night ! 

When love thus plighted troth f ore'er : 
Though long since then Time's sped his flight. 

Yet still to me that maid is fair. 



ONE DAY. 

Thoughts of commingled joy and pain 

Were better lost : 
Bright scenes long past, though sweet to gain, 

Do, when they cost 

An aching void, a heart's remorse, 

A mind's unrest. 
Embitter life which memory's loss 

Might else make blest. 

And yet could I bid thought expire, 

I am not sure 
That I would exercise that power : 

No, I'd endure 



22 REMEMBRANCE. 

Its racking pains, so that I may 
Again live o'er 

One day (O ! such a happy day) 
I knew of yore. 



REMEMBRANCE. 

Years blunt the probe of sorrow's dart, 

Whilst charms more dear 
They oft to pleasures past impart; 

Therefore why fear 
To enter Memory's mine, and there 

The past review. 
Dwelling o'er scenes, some dark, some fair, 

That once we knew? 

Although with joys that memory 

Wakes in the mind — 
Joys whose endeared remembrance we 

A solace find — 
There blendeth many a scene of pain, 

Yet, Oh ! when all 
Life's fairest portion we regain, 

The cost, how small ! 

Who would not bear the cost to move 

'Mong joys of old. 
To see those whom they once did love. 

And have unfold 
Before their gaze the past, restored 

In sweet entire? 
Oh! is there aught that could afford 

A pleasure higher? 



AT EARLY MORNING TIME. 23 

At early morning time upon the street 
This maiden passes by : I know her not, 
Yet in her keeping she my heart has got — 

This maid so gentle-mannered and so sweet. 

In summer's heat, in winter's fiercest snows, 
In days that are most beautiful and clear, 
Through all the changeful seasons of the year, 

Along the same oft traversed way she goes. 

We all do have our duties ; hers may be 

Within some still, close room to work throughout 
The hours of each day. O true and stout 

Must be, fair girl, that heart which beats in thee. 

Beyond the city now the hills are green 
With nature's richest touch ; but I prefer 
The stifling town, for here I may see her — 

A joy not found in any country scene. 

And thou, O gentle fellow-worker, thou 

Art cheerful through these long mid-summer days. 
Youth's hopes are thine ; and all may know who gaze 

Upon thy face that thou art happy now. 

And so I note each morning on the street 
This cheerful maiden pass. I know her not, 
Yet in her keeping she my heart has got — 

This maid so gentle-mannered and so sweet. 



24 RETROSPECTION. 

'Midst tangled weeds that o'er life's way have grown, 
There glimmer scenes of gladness we have known ; 
The paths whereon our footsteps trod they mark, 
Guiding us like beacons in the dark. 
Oh ! happy spots, how brightly do they gleam ! 
Their memories seeming like a pleasant dream. 
As they, unto our mind's perspective eye, 
Reveal undimm'd the joys of days gone by. 

The lapse of time, with all* its griefs, can ne'er 
The memory of those happy scenes impair. 
Ah ! no ; it seems that each succeeding year 
Their clear remembrance renders still more clear. 
Like fresh oasis on a barren waste, 
'T is sweet to near them, and 't is sweet to taste 
Their joys again, and once again stray o'er 
The pleasant paths we trod in years before. 



THE LAMENT OF A VILLAGE POET. 

" Uneasy lies the head " — I quote Shakespeare — 
" That wears a crown " ; and I may add also 

Uneasy lie the heads of all men here 

Who have won fame, a fact I'll try to show. 

To illustrate, I'll simply take myself : 

For (though no laurel wreath my head doth crown) 
I have achieved a name, although not pelf. 

Within the precincts of our rural town. 

I have been styled a Poet, and where'er 
I chance to go I'm known by that name: 

When I am out the people point and stare 
At me, some even jeer — and this is Fame ! 



THE LAMENT OF A VILLAGE POET. 25 

Well, it may be a fame most high, and yet 
I gladly would consent to be less great : 

The day I first wrote poetry I regret: 

The costs of greatness I have learned to hate. 

The costs of greatness are severe, and O ! 

In my case they are even more, for I'm 
Expected by most all the girls I know 

To spend my days in doing nought but rhyme. 

How oft when at my tasks I hear the sound 

Of voices in the sunny fields anear — 
Free, happy voices, whilst alas ! I'm bound 

A prisoner within my sanctum drear. 

The girls they care not for the brain that reels 

From application by the midnight oil, 
They care not how the Poet lives or feels. 

They think not of his unrequited toil ; 

His fevered forehead and his sunken eyes, 

His threadbare garments and his scanty purse, 

His isolation, and his long-drawn sighs 

Are heeded not: they care but for his versc.^ 

There is no scrap-book in the town but that 
Has some effusion from my taxed brain, 

Of which there's quite a number written at 
The cost of many a sleepless night of pain. 

And if, at her request, I write Mame White 
More than I do Sal Brown, I but incur 

Miss Brown's displeasure, who will cut or slight 
Me when again I meet or speak to her. 

* " They," as the writer has since found, do not care even for 
his verse. This poem, it should be noted, was composed at a very 
early period of the author's " career ". 



26 FREE AGENCY. 

Then when I really wish to send a line 

To some new friend, 't is like to happen she 

Will misconstrue my innocent design, 
And slight me too for my temerity. 

In this way I have ofttimes met disdain 

From one that else might have become a friend ; 

Yes, I have lost more than I e'er can gain 
By the effusions that in fear I've penned. 

Yet, launched forth on my course, I cannot pause 
Nor turn me from my thorny path of gloom: 

I must obey harsh Fate's exacting laws 

Until I reach the goal — the cold, cold Tomb. 

Written in 1876. 

FREE AGENCY. 

Are we at liberty — we sons 

Of earth — to act or else keep still 

As suits us, or automatons 
Obeying a diviner will? 

I hold that, in a moral sense. 

We all may act just as we please ; 

Though we must take the consequence 
If we outrage law's stern decrees. 

If wrong, I'm willing to amend 

These views of mine : theology. 
On which this question seems to trend, 

Is something too abstruse for me. 

I sometimes think we are not free. 

Oft when my brain is fagged and just 
Needs rest, a something urges me 

To rhyme — to rhyme. And rhyme I must ! 
Written in 1911. 



I'VE NEVER LOVED. 27 

I've never loved, ah me! 

But whyfore sigh? 
A lover is not free 

From pain, and I — 

Thus being heartwhole — can 

Much better stand 
Those trials that meet man 

On every hand. 

Untrammeled by the links 

Of a love's chain, 
Life prizes are, methinks, 

Less hard to gain. 

And yet at times I'm moved 

To sigh : well, this 
Loving and being loved 

Perhaps is bliss. 

Poets do tell us so ; 

It must be true. 
Really, I'd like to know 

What 't is to woo : 

What 't is to woo, to win, 

To wed — to move 
Henceforth 'mong scenes wherein 

Abideth love. 

To love, to love ! Well, it — 

As 1 may say — 
May be most exquisite, 

And I some day 



28 I'VE NEVER LOVED. 

Might know more than I do 

At present of 
The sweets belonging to 

This thing called love. 

Ah yes ! sometime, somewhere, 

On some glad day, 
By some one who is fair, 

I somehow may 

Be taught that passion grand — 

Be taught to know 
A lover's rapture, and 

A lover's woe. 

And yet, and yet instead 

Of blessings which 
A perfect love doth shed 

On poor and rich, 

It may through life be mine 

Alone to go. 
Well, well, need I repine 

If this be so? 

But it were better not 

To speculate 
On what might be ; our lot 

Is ruled by fate. 

Ah yes, one's destiny 

Is fixed I fear : 
" There's a divinity," 

So says Shakespeare, 

" That shapes our ends, rough-hew 
Them how we will." 

Our destiny, 'tis true. 
We must fulfill. 



FACTORY LIFE. 29 

Working away 

The live-long day, 
Breathing the stifling air, 

Only to leave 

The task when eve 
Closes the day of care : 

And then, used up. 

Go home and sup, 
Then sleep — sweet balm — until 

A new day breaks 

On earth, and wakes 
The toiler of the mill. 

Each day this scene, 

This dull routine. 
Relieved by no bright spot : 

No hope's glad ray 

Lighting a way 
Unto a happier lot. 



DOLLY'S ALBUM. 

I sit my desk before. 

And with much pleasure o'er 

These leaves I look : 
For many wishes kind. 
Expressed by friends, I find 

Within this book. 

And now, Miss Dolly, I 
To write in verse shall try 

My best : although 
To worthiness like thine 
These humble lines of mine 

Cannot, I know, 



30 dolly's album. 

Full justice do. Yet, Dolly, 
It were indeed a folly 

Even to dream 
That I, or any man, 
In prose or poetry can 

Take as a theme 

Thy charming self, and to 
His subject matter do 

Full justice : still — 
Though by no means a bard — 
I will my brains rack hard 

Some leaves to fill 

With rh5niie ; for thou dost ask 
Me to attempt this task, 

And how could I 
Thee anything refuse? 
So I'll invoke the Muse. 

Come, Muse, deny 

Me nothing, as I — more 
Than any time before — 

Do need thy aid : 
For now my thoughts are of 
A maid whom many love — 

A fair young maid. 

And thou, Miss Dolly, art 
That maid, and in my heart 

The wish most dear 
Is that futurity 
May have bright scenes for thee : 

Yes, may life here. 



dolly's holly. 31 

As now, be blest always 
With glad and sunny days. 

But to an end 
I now shall draw these rhymes, 
Hoping thou wilt sometimes 

On me, thy friend. 

Bestow a thought. And now 
Farewell. Ah ! Dolly, how 

Reluctantly 
The parting word I pen: 
Yet all must feel sad when 

They part from thee. 

Still hope doth make less sad 
The parting. While I had 

Far rather dwell 
More o'er these rhymes, I know 
It cannot be, and so — 

A last farewell. 



DOLLY'S HOLLY. 

I thank thee much, kind Dolly, 
For that bright crimson holly 

Thou gavest me : 
It will, I fully know. 
Wherever I may go. 

Bring thoughts of thee. 

'Tis emblematic of 

Peace and good-will and love 

Prevailing here 
Now among men : yes, it 
Is precious — that bright bit 

Of Christmas cheer. 



32 MY DOINGS. 

As expressed in a letter to Miss E.A .P. in August of 1883. 

Throughout the day I toil hard at the store : 

My " toil " consists in standing at the door 

And helping to support, as one might say, 

Those pillars each side of the store's door-way : 

I, in supporting them, support myself ; 

A pleasant way methinks of gaining pelf. 

At eve I gaze the bath-room window out 

To see if Mrs. Kreutzer is about : 

Yon lamp-post's glare on Newbold avenue 

Ofttimes her willowy form brings into view. 

Yet seldom, ah ! too seldom do I hear 

Those dulcet tones the boys so greatly fear ; 

That woman, " nursed in affluence " when young. 

Seems to have bridled her discursive tongue. 

And so, regretfully, I close the sash, 

And soon uptownwards stroll I for a mash ; 

But baffled in this quest, as oft I am, 

I, Kreutzer-like, breathe forth a quiet " damn ". 

Yet I am not unhappy, for next door 

Are Galwick's girls, who warble o'er and o'er 

Those soulful songs of sentimental kind. 

And this is pleasing to my tortured mind. 

They sing of violets that are so sweet, 

And " Baby's Empty Cradle " they repeat. 

For hours I have list, with joy and pride. 

To their eternal " Gliding down the tide ". 

They sing to have their " Graves kept green ", and I 

With this request would wish much to comply. 

I need a change — a change of air: [I here 

Mean air of music, not the atmosphere.] 

E'en give me William with his " Peek-a-boo ", 

Or his " O'Reilley " — even that would do. 



MY DOINGS. 33 

Ah yes ! more change in tunes would crown my bliss, 

Noi would more change in money come amiss. 

But Philadelphia has its own delights, 

The sun shines here in days, the moon at nights. 

Although we have no lake nor mountains, still 

Some hills have we: (for instance — " Cherry Hill ".) 

You have a " bar " at which you justice do ; 

We also have our bars, aye ! not a few. 

And so we manage here to jog along ; 

Although we make of life no " grand, sweet song ", 

Yet does it matter? Surely hearts may break 

E'en 'mid those peaceful hills by Crystal Lake. 

A wretch by care oppressed, go where he may, 

Cannot from Sorrow's grasp e'er break away. 

The end's the same, a little mound of earth 

Will cover those whose hearts now swell with mirth 

As well as those whose portion here below 

Is that of grief and agonizing woe. 

My view of death is this— but hold : excuse 

This mos* lugubrious turning of my muse. 

I meant to rattle off a careless strain, 

Nor thought to touch on things that might give pain. 

Let Joy prevail : let Pleasure hold control, 

And shed an ecstasy within each soul. 

Let happy scenes greet our eyes as we 

Peer into that unknown futurity. 

And now, in closing, I would fain express 

My wishes for your future happiness. 

So fare-you-well. Write soon and tell me how 

Things are progressing at " Friend Phinny's " now. 



34 DISCREET. 

Last evening at the club I said 

A good thing which I'll now repeat. 

I — er — no, this book might be read. 
So I shall have to be " discreet ". 

A bard and clubman should suppress 
Sometimes his fervent tendencies : 

Hence I'll now try, I can't do less, 
To observe the proprieties. 



A MILD HOMILY ON DRINK. 

{In which the writer temperately considers the question 
so as not to displease any likely reader of his book.) 

Some men when seized with thirst go in 
Saloons, whose doors are open wide ; 

They drink beer, whiskey, rum and gin 
Until their thirst is satisfied. 

They have a right, a legal right 

(No moral right, I sometimes think,) 

To patronize morn, r.oon and night 

The bar, and fill themselves with drink. 

These bar-room patrons may not thank 

Me if I say aught against them ; 
They may call me a " temperance crank " 

If I their drinking ways condemn. 

Therefore, though I can not commend 
The habit of strong drink, yet those 

Addicted to it why offend? 

'T will do no good ; so I shall close. 



STARS. 35 

OR A 

Soulful Soliloquy Suddenly Squelched. 

" 'T is midnight : a glorious star 
Scintillates in the heavens afar. 

Like a star I — hie ! — feel 

As homeward I reel, 
For I've sinned till late — hie! — at a bar. 

" With infinite yearning I peer 
Into space. Leaning silently here 

Against the lamp-post 

At this corner, I'm most 
Overcome by emotion — and beer. 

" How beautiful now appears Mars ! 
Athwart night's dark sky his — hie ! — bars 

Of "—Here with a billy 

A cop knocked him silly, 
Which caused him to see some more stars. 

Not of stars histrionic which we 
On Chestnut street frequently see — 

No, I sing not of them ; 

'Tis those orbs that begem 
The blue sky that just now enthrill me. 

But yet in the zenith ablaze 
There's a star on which I oft gaze 

That reminds me, it seems. 

Of a bright star which beams 
At " The Chestnut " in various plays. 



36 ART. 

These two stars, I am well aware, 
Are strangely alike : both are fair, 

Both are brilliant ; but O ! 

They're so distant, and so 
I'm o'erwhelmed with grief and despair. 



ART. 



Inspired by those gifted Goddesses of Burlesque — Miss 
Flossie Friskoe and Miss Dollie de Laine. 

I worship Art, and to her Fane 

I very often go : 
There to enthuse o'er a de Lains, 

Likewise o'er a Friskoe. 

I list to music's sweetest strains ; 

My heart a rapture knows. 
I'm thankful for the world's de Laines, 

And for the world's Friskoes. 

A knowledge of chaste art one gains 

When towards the zenith those 
Toes point — the toes of our de Laines 

And those of our Friskoes. 

Those sturdy, supple, speedy toes ! 

Night's gem-decked sky contains 
No stars as bright as our Friskoes, 

As fair as our de Laines. 

Fill these girls' slippers with champagne 

Until they overflew : 
I drink your health, dear Doll de Laine — 

Yours too, fair Floss Friskoe. 



FLORABELLE FONTAINE. 37 

To art's exponents much we owe. 

I scarcely can refrain 
From idolizing Floss Friskoe, 

Adoring Doll de Laine. 

Art, though, concerns me — not, ah no ! 

The artists. It were vain 
To think of fairest Floss Friskoe, 

Or of dear Doll de Laine. 

That scintillating starry twain 

Care not for me, I know. 
Farewell, farewell, dear Doll de Laine. 

Farewell, fair Floss Friskoe. 

To Art — to Art alone I pay 

My homage. I infer 
None can object in any way 

To my adoring — her. 



FLORABELLE FONTAINE. 

Gleeful gallery gods get gayer ; graver guys — good graybeards— 
growing 
Fairly faint from following Flora's favorite fantastic flights. 
She — sweet seraph — sprightly stepping, swiftly swirling, some- 
times showing 
Dainty diaphanous drapery dudes deem divine delights. 

Beautiful, bewitching being, briskly bounding, brightly beaming; 

Such seductive, suave, soul-stirring smiles spectators seldom see. 
Dear, delightful, daring danseuse, never in my deepest dreaming 

During dark, despairing days did dandier darlings dance for me. 



38 FLOSSIE FRISKOE. 

As I light from my auto the guys 

Round the door of " The Stratford " look wise; 

They seem somehow to know 

That 'tis Flossie Friskoe 
With whom I would fain fraternize. 

I enter the general cafe ; 

Having dined in my leisurely way, 

I next light a cigar, 

Drink her health at the bar. 
Then my chauffeur whirls me to the play. 

To " The Gaieties " I of course go; 
My seat's on the aisle, the first row. 

I step out 'tween the acts 

(I am stating plain facts) 
To drink healths to fair Flossie Friskoe. 

I am bald — I confess it ; therefore 
When the famed seven-veil ballet corps 

Do their turn on the stage, 

I, in spite of my age, 
Shriek with joy till my throat becomes sore. 

My passion for art is intense. 

True art moves me deeply, and hence 

In the maddening whirl 

Of a short-skirted girl 
The pi ^asure I feel is immense. 

At the close of the dance, I should state, 
I find I must needs lubricate 

That strained larynx of mine; 

This I do with some wine 
Chased by whiskey, the which I take straight. 



FLOSSIE FRISKOE. 59 

Plays deeply affect me, and so 
On reaching home after the show 

I'm obliged to be led 

By my valet to bed, 
Where I dream of sweet Flossie Friskoe. 

I rise about ten the next day, 

Take a bath, read critiques on the play; 

Having braced myself by 

Several " Manhattans ", I 
Then lunch, then — Ah ! the matinee. 

A bachelor's life such as mine 
Is not a bad thing, I opine ; 

Wine, woman and song 

To beguile it. What ! wrong 
To be swayed by this thrice-blest combine? 

L'envoi. 

Life's a mystery. Let Fortune frown 
Upon me, Fll not be cast down. 

I never shall grow 

Pessimistic, I know. 
While Flossie remains in the town. 



CONSIDERATE. 

Men's views differ greatly, and hence 
Wlien I on a subject commence 
Which seems delicate, I 
Draw it mild. I would die 
R:)ther than give a reader offense. 



40 QUEEN OF THE CORPS DE BALLET. 

'Tis good to see this gloriously graceful girl gyrating 

In terpsichorean twirlings to the timbrel's tuneful strain; 

Fond, foolish, fleeting fancies fill my mind when fascinating 
Flossie Friskoe's fairy feet flit, as it were, across my brain. 

O Flossie ! Flossie Friskoe ! dearest girl, there's no denying 
That you're a first-class thoroughbred : no fact can be more 
plain. 
Beyond a doubt, angelic one, you could, without half trying, 
My devoutest adoration very speedily obtain. 

Queen of the ballet. Queen also of that fond heart within me, 
It storms, and I am wet clean through : the show, I know, is o'er. 

Why not come forth? O ! can it be that you don't care to win me? 
If I, love, really thought so I'd drop dead at this stage door. 

Dead ! Ah, my life's star, heaven knows I would for you die 
gladly : 

I love you more than I dare tell, though lacking none in nerve. 
Your imaged form, shrined in my heart, I worship O! so madly: 

I would that I could praise you in the manner you deserve. 

Your myriad charms I can't resist. Gad! I am badly smitten: 
At last I've learned what love is, something I ne'er knew before. 

Will that love be returned some day? Or shall I get the mitten? 
I tremble when I think what Fate may have for me in store. 



UNCOMMUNICATIVE. 

I firse met her, I won't say who, 

On Ches — but I shall not say where. 

I told her — no, it would not do 

To state just here what I said there. 

We dined at the Ritz-Carl — no, I 

Shall mention not the place ; but when 

We parted we said we — but why 

Tell when and where we'll meet again? 



ACTOR McGRANE. 41 

I cannot very well refrain 

From saying that 't is quite 
A joy for me to know McGrane 

Is now an Orpheum light. 

McGrane will prove a drawing card ; 

He is an actor true; 
I saw him oft at " The Girard ", 

Also at the " Bijou ". 

He's strong, artistic — just the sort 

Of Thespian one likes. 
I once saw E. L. Davenport 

Portray the brutal Sikes : 

I witnessed our favorite 

More recently sustain 
The same role : both stars made a hit, 

But I preferred McGrane. 

He by his art thrills our heartchords; 

Ah ! no one, I maintain, 
Can tread with truer grace the boards 

Than Thomas J. McGrane. 

I prophesy a future bright: 

Wealth, fame, too, for this most 
Accomplished histrionic light 

Whom I propose to toast. 

Come, fill them up full to the brim; 

Drink deep, aye, till you drain 
Your glasses dry in toasting him — 

The genial McGrane. 

Long life, sound health, friends ever true, 

A long and prosperous reign 
Upon the stage — these we wish you, 

Friend Thomas J. McGrane. 



42 A QUESTION. 

Respectfully asked one of the members of the Orpheum 

Company. 

Tell me, Lottie, have you ever 

Been in love? Come, why so mute? 

Let me know. I'm told you're clever, 
And they do say you're — a beaut. 

I don't doubt it — ah ! I know it. 

Cleverness and beauty are 
Gifts that well might thrill a poet 

Who discerns them in a star. 

I'm no bard : I show this clearly; 

But the question is not of 
One's poetic skill : 't is merely 

If Lot ever was in love. 

I'm not moved by — O ! believe me, — 

Idle curiosity 
In this matter : it would grieve me 

If Lot thought so ill of me. 

Does she love? That is the query, 

Not if she is loved : Ah, no ! 
Lovers ! Why, their vows must weary 

Very often Lot Briscoe. 

I myself, a man of forty, 

A staid bachelor, have at times 
Felt inclined — O! was it nau"htv? — 

To indite the girl some rhymes. 

I have watched with admiration 
Her love scenes: they make one feel 

There's back of the simulation 
Something that is strong and real. 



AN APPOINTMENT. 43 

Something grand and sweet and mighty; 

'Tis the love that some hearts know. 
Love, aye ! such as row glows brightly 

In the heart of Lot Briscoe. 

From her eyes love's light is beaming. 

Could that kindly glow illume 
My sad life : nay, I am dreaming — 

Vainly dreaming 'mid the gloom. 



OUR ERSTWHILE FRIENDS. 

A toast now to our erstwhile friends, to those fair stars, so gifted. 
Whose pictures we no longer see framed at the theatre door : 

Though the Josephines, the Evelyns and the Lillians have drifted 
From town, they still in our hearts dwell— they'll dwell there 
evermore. 



AN APPOINTMENT. 

She promised to meet him at eight. 

Still when Nate made the date a long wait 

Was before him he feared. 

At ten Kate appeared, 
Exclaiming "dear me ! am I late?" 

" Yes, Kate, somewhat late," replied Nate. 
" And yet fate I would hate to berate. 

I instinctively knew 

That at a rendezvous 
You'd be late— this is straight, let me state." 

" The play now is over, no doubt ; 

But meet me to-morrow about 

Three o'clock in the day, 
To attend the night's play: 

We might then get there ere the show's out." 



44 VAUDEVILLE. 

I'm fond of moving-picture shows ; 

I watch with pleasure every scene 
The wizard's apparatus throws 

Upon the taut-drawn muslin screen. 

Mountains and vales, fields, swaying trees, 
Great cities in which men are pent, 

The free, vast ocean — on all these 
I gaze with a rapt wonderment. 

When one can not in person go 

Where nature's fair scenes are, it's nice 

To sit then in a picture show 

And view them at so small a price. 

I'm fond also of vaudeville; 

Some things therein I can't resist ; 
I'm always glad to know I will 

See a first-class ventriloquist. 

But songs well rendered seem to please 
Me more than any other thing; 

I love to hear old melodies 

Sung by those who know how to sing. 

An educated pig or horse, 

A cultured ape, a well-trained flea, 

Or dog or seal — each is a source 
Of interest and joy to me. 

A monologuist's rattling wit. 
Musicians who perform on all 

Known instruments, a black-face skit. 
Contortionists — such things ne'er pall. 

I like a graceful dancing act ; 

The acrobats give me a thrill ; 
A playlet I enjoy. In fact, 

I'm very fond of vaudeville. 



AN AVERMENT. ' 43 

I feel most kindly to those who 

Display such grace and cleverness 
In their especial acts, and to 

The artists all I wish success. 

They are painstaking, one and all ; 

Some are not perfect, yet why look 
For faults? I've ne'er felt moved to call 

(I'm glad to say this) " Get the hook". 



AN AVERMENT. 

A poem inspired by and dedicated to Miss Friskoe. 

Business affairs 

And other cares 
Knocked out, methought, the spell that she 

Had o'er me cast 

In seasons past. 
But that spell " will not down ", I see. 

On pleasure bent, 

Last night I went 
To see the play ; in it I saw 

Lottie Friskoe, 

And lo! (yes, "lo") 
The old spell held me as of yore. 

It sways me still, 

And ever will 
While stars — but is this hyperbole? 

Nay, nay : it is 

The truth, I wis. 
I cannot lie, upon my soul. 

When I aver. 

Therefore, that her 
Smiles fan [this line sounds well] anew 

Hope's flickering glow, 

Lottie Friskoe 
Knows the averment is quite true. 



46 BEYOND CONTROL. 

To write like this 
To Lottie Fris- 
Koe is an easy thing to do. 
A bard has got 
A snap when Lot- 
Tie is the one whom he writes to. 

There are some themes 
Which, so it seems, 

Poets are rather loath to drop ; 
When I write of 
Some one I love 

I find it difficult to stop. 

An ed-i-tor 

Must not, therefore, 
Try to dam (up) a poet's soul. 

I'm not profane, 

I but maintain 
That poets are beyond control. 



THE REJUVENESCENCE OF AN ILLINOIS 

PEACH. 

Miss Dubois, whose girth was too great, 
Decided to emaciate 

Herself, so to speak ; 

Hence for more than a week 
She fasted to reduce her weight. 

She wanted to leave Illinois 

And star in burlesque. Miss Dubois 

Knew, though, that men are 

Not much stuck on a star 
Of superfluous avoirdupois. 



THE REJUVENESCENCE OF AN ILLINOIS PEACH. 47 

She was forty, yet fair for all that; 
In her twenties she had appeared at 

A Bowery hall. 

She said, at this call 
Of the wild, " I'll get rid of my fat ". 
When my embonpoint is less in 
Evidence, then — ah! then I'll begin 

Practicing the old glides. 

Curves, and serpentine slides. 
Wait ! I'll soon be sufficiently thin. 

Yes, said she, when my adipose parts 
Are toned down by my drastic arts, 

I'll again whirl in tights 

Behind the footlights, 
And again dance my way in men's hearts. 
So for nine days she lived upon nought 
But air ; she obtained what she sought — 

That is, a slim waist, 

Which was much to her taste. 
She stars now at a seaside resort. 

In short tinseled skirts, which display 
So well her rare form, this fair fay 

These days dances and sings, 

And does other thinccs 
On the boards, in a most fetching way. 
I ne'er, I may add, miss a chance 
Of seeing this now slim sylph dance. 

Oft on her agile limb 

And ankle so trim 
I bestow a — er — well, casual glance. 
In an office one gets no fresh air; 
To the sea, therefore, I'll soon repair. 

The Illinois Peach 

In a joint near the beach 
Does her stunts. I'll spend all my time there. 



48 ATLANTIC CITY. 

The seashore ! O what pleasures are 

Found there ! My greatest joy, I think, 

Is to lean up against th's bar, 

And smoke and chev/ and talk and drink. 

It's usually too hot for me 

On the boardwalk ; I find this beer 

Saloon more cool ; when by the sea 
I spend most all of my time here. 

Fans run by electricity 

Put ocean breezes on the blink : 

Hence in this place, when by the sea, 

I lounge, and smoke, and chew, and drink. 

Its nam.e? No, in books 't is unwise 
To insert " ads " : true poets shrink 

From this ; so I'll not advertise 

The place where I smoke, chew and drink. 

O ! smoking, chew'ng, drinking — three 
Of life's most rare joys; what a boon 

To man is this blest trinity, 

Whose praise I sing in this — hie — sloon. 



OPPORTUNITY. 

We're told that Opportunity 

Knocks at all doors : I rather think 

That I the day she called on me 

Must have stepped out to take a drink. 

When she sought, though, an interview 
With me I may not at the time 

Have heard her knocking, be'ng too 
Busy — too busy writing rhyme. 

And she will not repeat her call ! 

My chance I lost. Was it the Muse — 
My love for her — that caused my fall? 

Or was it my love for the booze? 

I loved too well : 'twas indiscreet, 
As I now know. Alas ! I might 

Have the whole world now at my feet 
If I had only acted right. 



ST. VALENTINE. 49 

Ah ! dearest Saint, 

A licart, though faint, 

May this glad day, without restraint, 

Its fondest secret tell. 
Plence I opine 
The right is mine 
To forward now a valentine 

To one whom I love well. 

I love her. Yes, 

I must confess 

1 love her. I can not say less, 

Nor yet can I say more. 
Indeed, indeed, 
There is no need; 
I've said more here — for her to read — 

Than I e'er said before. 



A NAME. 

I hear your name. 

And into flame 

Glows the old love — the love that came 

To me one day 

In flowery May, 

When I met you upon life's way. 

Though time, dear Maud, 

With lines has scored 

My brow, your name vibrates a chord 

In my heart, for 

Within its core 

You live as in the days of yore. 



50 TO THE DAY'S ENTHRONED SAINT. 

On this, thy day, most hearts, St. Valentine, 

Incline to love ; my own sad heart also 
Shares in the season's joy. Ah me ! I know 

So fair — so dear a maid ; and it is mine, 
As one who worshipeth at Beauty's shrine. 

Life's fondest wish in simple verse to show. 
Not they, O gracious Saint, who truly owe 

Allegiance to that sacred cause of thine 
Methinks can scorn a tale that love hath told: 

And therefore she, whom I do hold so dear, 
May to my story lend a kindly ear 

Nor feel the while that I have been too bold. 
This day, this happy day, one may unfold 

The secrets of the heart without a fear. 
1906. 

MEMORIES. 

Called up by a re-perusal, after the lapse pf years, of the sonnet-valentine 
in luliose depths {not very profound depths) the writer has liidden a cer- 
tain name of an, at that time, uncertain friend. 

He knew not (Ah! how could he know!) 
When he wrote that verse long, long ago, 

That between its lines he 

Would in later days see 
The name of a friend — not a foe. 

Friends are precious, and those whom we meet 
In the world make our lives seem more sweet. 

Yes, 'tis friends that one needs, 

As I learned when " in seeds ". 
Ah! I had one — once — on Market street 1 

The writer, though, does not intend 
To muse now o'er rhymes he once penned, 
But he's glad to behold 
In this valentine old 
The name — not of a foe, but a friend. 
May, 19 1 2. 



A NEEDED GIRL. 51 

This day confers prerogatives, 

And hence I might 
Now to the dearest girl that lives 

Some lines indite. 

I love her : 't would be strange indeed 

If I did not. 
She is the very girl I need 

To bless my lot. 

Without her I could not endure 

This life on earth ; 
For it would then be, I am sure, 

Of little worth. 

On hearing these plain truths will she 

My suit decline? 
I need her so. I trust she'll be 

My valentine. 



THEMIC VARIETY. 

One should not on a single string 

Continuously play, 
And therefore e'en from such a thing 

As love I sometimes stray. 

By doing so I'm apt to light 

On a theme I know more 
About ; in which case readers might 

Not find me such a bore. 

But I'm most partial, I confess, 
To love ; yet of all themes 

It is the one with which I'm less 
Acquainted, so it seems. 



52 TWO SOULS. 

My soul adores, St. Valentine, 
A certain maid : O ! may 

I not dispatch a rhythmic line 
To her, good Saint, this day? 

No other maiden is so fair, 
So sweet, so dear as she. 

Will such a creature ever care 
In any way for me ? 

Perhaps she may : oft has a maid 
Been won by Poesy's art. 

Come then, O Muse, lend me thy aid 
To win this fair one's heart. 

O ! with Promethean fire fill 
My o'erwrought mind : endow 

Me with the power to enthrill 
That soul so tranquil now. 



BOLDNESS. 

A tyro's ignorance may be 

Rightly regarded as sublime; 

'Tis this kind of sublimity 

That I possess when I write rhyme. 

It is my unacquaintanceship, 

And not familiarity, 
With love which causes me to dip 

So often in that mystery. 

An ignorance that is profound 

Emboldens one ; great poets tread 

With reverent awe Love's holy ground: 
I stroll thereon without a dread. 



ADALINE. 53 

Come, fairest Adaline, 

And be forever mine. 
Grant me my soul's request, and with a kiss 

Seal the sweet compact of 

A never-dying love 
That is to crown our lives with heaven's bliss. 

That heart of mine ne'er knew 

Love's strange, sweet thrill till you 
Aroused it by your charms, dear Adaline: 

It now lies at your feet. 

And O ! 't will cease to beat 
If vou disdain it as a valentine. 



A BOLD DECLARATION. 

I don't exaggerate 

The least bit when I state 
Boldly upon this page that I love Grace; 

In fact, for her I feel 

An adoration real — 
An adoration time can ne'er efface. 

Love wins love, so they say ; 
If this be true, some day 

My love for Grace will be returned, and then- 
Yes, then I'll find life worth 
The living, for on earth 

I'll surely be the happiest of men. 



54 THIS DAY. 

Evening is drawing near. 
Before the day is done 
I wish to tell some one 

Why it has seemed so dear. 

Yes, I fain would disclose, 
Ere in the glowing west 
The sun sinks to his rest. 

The love that my heart knows. 

To her I now convey 

That love. Shall it be mine 
To gain, St. Valentine, 

Her's in return — this day? 



FATE'S BOOK. 

In Fate's book it is recorded 
Love shall triumph. Ah! if so, 
Then my love for her, I know, 

Will not long go unrewarded. 



HER SMILE. 

I hold, (though I may not be right — 

There have been times when I was wrong), 

That, as a rule, the smiles which light 
Up a fair face deserve a song. 

And that is why I write these lines. 

Her kindly, rare, sweet, lingering. 
Dear smile from out the past now shines 

On me, and I've just got to sing ! 



SUMMER IN TOWN. 55 

{After — a long zvay after — T. Buchanan Read.) 

The shutters of 

That house above 
Our alley, where resides my love, 

Are closed : the sight 

Unnerves me quite; 
It casts upon my life a blight. 

I am bereft ; 

My heart is cleft. 
Marie, alas ! the town has left. 

Her folks and she 

Will by the sea 
The summer spend. O woe is me! 

I saw them go; 

It grieved me, though 
I durst not my emotion show. 

My grief I tried 

By smiles to hide. 
I could much easier have sighed. 

But now as I 

Pass slowly by 
Her darkened home I loudly sigh. 

When no one's near 

I need not fear 
To heave a sigh or drop a tear. 

O ! happy sea 

To have Marie 
Sojourn these days so near to thee; 

To have her stroll 

Where thy waves roll 
Must thrill thy ever throbbing soul. 



56 HANDICAPPED. 

, I sadly pore 

My ledger o'er 
While Marie lingers at the shore. 

At night I go 

Down town to blow 
The froth off beers to drown my woe. 

Yes, my Marie 

Is by the sea, 
Drifting perchance far, far from me. 

My heart doth bleed. 

O ! I have need 
To — to apologize to Read. 



HANDICAPPED. 

'Gad ! if rhymes could only win her. 
Then this girl, this saint divine, 

Would, as sure as I'm a sinner. 
Very soon be wholly mine. 

But rhymes cut r.c ice when laying 
Siege to hearts: rocks and not rhyme 

(I know well what I am saying) 
Win a woman every time. 

Still a title is a wonder, 

And were I a belted earl. 
Without rocks or rhymes, by thunder, 

I could gain that angel girl. 

As Bradstreet my name ignores so, 

As I wear no ducal crown. 
This fair saint my heart adores so 

Will most likely turn me down. 



AN INTERRUPTION. 5? 

You, most beauteous luminary, 

Shall, while earthly life is mine, 

Occupy, as 'twere, the shrine 
In my warm heart's sanctuary. 

I am glad that you are willing 
Thus to throw yourself into 
My arms outstretched, Icve, for you. 

'Tis romantic, aye ! and thrilling. 

By the door the trolleys clatter. 

What care we, though, for their jar? 

Worlds might crash anear or far, 
But to us, now, 'twould not matter. 

This is not a cause for wonder. 

Whyfore heed these weird alarms? 

Thus encircled in my arms. 
Naught can e'er tear us asunder. 

Life is strange — we meet, we part here. 

How inscrutable is Fate! 

Death ! Can it e'er separate 
Our two selves pressed heart to heart here? 

Hark! Dost hear? The bell, the bell, dear! 

Dinner's ready: break away. 

What, a kidney stew to-day? 
Good ! I hope they've done it well, dear. 



58 A BILLION. 

Clctilda, were you to allow 
Me on your lips to press — 

Or even on your cheek or brow — 
A billion, more or less, 

Of kisses, I would set about 
The task forthwith : although 

A lifetime it would take no doubt 
The kisses to bestow. 

When I think of a billion sweets 
(It is a goodly store) 

That heart of mine, Clotilda, beats 
As it did ne'er before. 



CLOTILDA. 

I held her yesternight within these arms, 

And on her rose-hued lips I pressed, ye gods! 

Full many a kiss. But O ! her myriad charms 
Were better told by laureated bards. 

Aye, let the poets sing as ne'er before : 

Clotilda claims their homage ; at her shrine 

Now may earth's gifted sons of song outpour 
Their surcharged hearts in melody divine. 

I am, alas ! no poet, else I might 
Expatiate in verses on her charms. 

Sufficeth it to say that yesternight 

I kissed and held Clotilda in these arms! 



WOMAN. 59 

Was the first sinner not 

A woman? Can you blot 
That striking fact from life's historic page? 

Has she not, through all time, 

Shared in the deeds of crime 
Performed by mortals on the world's broad stage? 

But woman, ne'ertheless 

Is fair, and we who press 
To our warm hearts the fairest of the sex, 

Should doubt not that truth lies 

In her bright-beaming eyes. 
Why should obtrusive doubts our souls perplex? 

If woman has destroyed 

Our peace by having toyed 
With our fond hearts, what matters it? Although 

Sore-stricken, we may live. 

Live ! Ah ! then we'll forgive 
The one who dealt the devastating blow. 



VULNERABLE MAN. 

For years a man may walk 

Life's road, and he may talk 
With women, and their friendship cultivate; 

Through all love holds, it seems, 

Aloof, and so he deems 
Love powerless his will to dominate. 

But O ! there comes a day 

When he meets on his way 
A certain maid whose smiles on him alight, 

And straightway to his heart 

Hurtles a fiery dart. 
And he — the man — is vanquished by love's might. 



60 MEN'S HEARTS. 

I ventured upon Christmas Day 
To send her just a little spray 

Of mistletoe : 
Along with it — but why impart 
The fact that with it went my heart 

To Miss Simcoe? 

Perhaps, however, she divined 

That 'mongst those tender leaves was twined 

A heart. If so, 
Did it the value of that bit 
Of green enhance? What mattered it 

To Miss Simcoe? 

Hearts! What are they? Men's hearts I mean. 
Mere toys for Beauty's use I ween ; 

Fate's spoils I trow. 
Enclosed in billets-doux, such things 
The ladened postman daily brings 

To Miss Simcoe. 

Sometime perchance the mail may bring 
To her a toy, and on the thing 

She will bestow 
More care than is her wont. Love may 
Yet its all-conquering force display 

To Miss Simcoe. 

But O ! not mine, not mine, not mine 
It is to strike the spark divine, 

And make it glow. 
Within that now unruffled breast. 
Bringing love's joy and love's unrest 

To Miss Simcoe. 



HER HEART. 61 

The heart that she possesses is 
Not adamant — not quite, I wis. 

Had I the " dough " 
I'd soon make an impression there. 
Nay, nay : this thought is most unfair 

To Miss Simcoe. 

In striving for her heart and hand 
A multi-billionaire would stand 

No better show 
Than others. Worth and true love may 
Find (here's some hope for me) a way 

To Miss Simcoe. 

Yet in love's quest how would I fare 
When pitted 'gainst a billionaire? 

I do not know. 
I might some disadvantage slight 
Be under. To find out I'll write 

To Miss Simcoe. 



SUSTAINING A REPUTATION. 

An event of a recent date 

Is really worth telling — but why 
So weird an occurrence narrate? 

If I do they'll think that I lie. 

My record for ve-rac-i-ty 

Must not be endangered, hence I 

On certain occasions should be 
Real silent else they'll think I lie. 

If one remains silent one Avill 

Be deemed most veracious: I'll try 

To be taciturn. If I'm still 

Who — who, then, can say that I lie? 



62 AN INVITATION. 

Addressed to Miss D. and the tivo Miss R's. 

Maud is a wit, this " aint no lie " : 

In fact, in this great city 
There's not another girl whom I 

Consider quite as witty. 

That " mot " of hers, whilst she and Net 
Were waiting for a trolley, 

Was really great — but yet, but yet 
It made me melancholy : 

For it implied that I was quite 

A wily kind of sinner, 
Who would not in good faith invite 

A friend or two to dinner. 

Well, well. To show I was sincere 
When I addressed our lady, 

Let me extend to her right here, 
Also to Net and Sadie, 

An invitation to partake 

Of various kinds of victuals. 

So name the day when we shall make 
A trip to Friend Doolittle's. 



A STRANGE MYSTERY. 

Of course I am minus a wife, 
Not having had in all my life 

A single sweetheart. 

Love has stood apart 
From me in the world's bitter strife. 

And yet (here's a strange mystery!) 
I know what love is! Hope tells me 

That love — this divine 

Gift — is to be mine 
Some day, when my soul will be free. 



I'LL SIGH AT TIMES. 63 

Written on the eve of Miss Mack's departure from toiun. 

Farewell, Miss Mack. 

I'll wish you back, 

For without you there'll be a lack 

Of joy, I fear; 
And I shall sigh 
At times, and I 
Perhaps — ah yes ! perhaps I'll die 

Without you here. 

At any rate, 

My grief is great. 

'Tis useless, though, to rail at fate : 

Hence I intend 
To banish care. 
I shan't despair, 
For I again may see my fair 

And sweet young friend. 

So fare you well; 

I dare not tell 

The thoughts that now within me dwell. 

I can but say 
That 'mid my woe 
Hope's star shall glow; 
Thus I'll be comforted, I know, 

When you're away. 

Of course I grieve 

To see you leave. 

And, as I mentioned, I shall heave 

A sigh or two ; 
But I'll not die — 
That is, if my 
Poor verses gain a kind reply 

Some day from you. 



64 INDETERMINATION. 

This world's a bright one — yes, and I 
Am happy ; often I ask why 

It is that I extract 
Such joy from life. Well, it may be 
Because I'm single. Possibly 

It is due to that fact. 

I'm glad, sometimes, that I'm alive. 
How fortunate 'tis to derive 

Life's maximum of good 
And mmimum of ill ! How true 
It is that this glad state is due 

Wholly to bachelorhood. 

Surely, I'm happy; yes, quite so. 
That is I am not sad. O no ! 

Blest is the single life. 
Yes, yes ; and to-night when I see 
Her I'll — no, yes, ask her to be 

My — er — well yes, my wife! 



A SENSIBLE GIRL. 

He asked her if she'd be his bride, 
She begged him for time to decide. 

I'd like greatly to wed. 

But one must not, she said, 
Seem too anxious to have the knot tied. 

You're perfectly right ; yes, my dear, 
A modest maid must not appear 

Too precipitous; so 

Take twelve months — O ! my no, 
Let's wed now : whyfore waste a whole year? 



A POET'S THEME. 65 

O! what in rhythmic manner may 

I touch upon? What seems 
The likeliest topic ? Tell me, pray — 

There are so many themes. 

Hate? Surely not. Love? Well, love wears 

A comelier face ; although 
I'm scarcely "up" in heart affairs, 

As doubtless some folks know. 

I have a smattering knowledge of 

Theft, penury and crime ; 
But really, when it comes to love 

I'm nonplussed every time. 

Yet Love's a thief— he steals one's heart : 

Love makes one poor at times: 
Love plays a most conspicuous part 

In many tragic crimes. 

Love comes at first like zephyrs soft- 
Zephyrs that turn, alack ! 

To wild cyclonic whirlwinds oft. 
With dread death in their track. 

This I have learned not from my own 

Experience ; I go 
To cold statistics, which alone 

Have taught me all I know. 

Yes, o'er statistics I have pored, 

Yet of Love's ambient flame 
I know but little. 'T would afford 

Me joy should some one name 

An easier theme. What fills the bill? 

Death? Drunkenness? Despair? 
Or shall I tackle love, that will 

Be thought by some more fair. 



66 A POET^S THEME. 

Love let it be ; yet Love's draught may 

Intoxicate, and there 
Is death ofttimes where Love holds sway; 

And lovers may despair. 

Thus love embraces all of ill, 

And all of good as well : 
It has a heaven, and one will 

Observe it has a hell. 

Alas ! that one in youth's bright morn 
Should find life not all joy; 

That " there's no rose without a thorn ", 
No bliss without alloy : 

That friends may prove unkind, that much 
" Which glitters is not gold ", 

That there, alas ! is even such 
A thing as love turned cold. 

These truths, however sad, must be 
Learned either soon or late ; 

And forewarned is forearmed, you see, 
Against an adverse fate. 

I've learned perhaps a thing or two 

Unknown in callovir days. 
My pleasures now may be more few, 

But then in various ways 

I'm recompensed : life still I find 

Is worth the living: yes. 
One's not bereft, when friends are kind. 

Of every happiness. 

And if I ever build such things 

As airy castles, or 
List sometimes to the songs Hope sings 

Whilst o'er my books I pore. 

Who may object? E'en if of love 
Hope sings I'll list : for why 

May I not know the rapture of 
That feeling ere I die? 



MY AGE. 67 

Dedicated to the five young ladies ivho on one occasion so inac- 
curately guessed the number of years the writer may be said 
to have lived. 

Some say I'm more than thirty-four, 

While others say I'm less ; 
And so it goes, nobody knows. 

They can but only guess. 

The maidens five cannot arrive 

At my age it appears. 
Unless I state my natal date. 

They can't compute my years. 

But I propose now to disclose 

My age : 'tis best I'm told 
Not to deny the fact that I 

Am growing somewhat old. 

Well, let me say 'twas on the day 

That I Miss Z first saw 
When life for me began, you see : 

Hence my years number four. 

Four years ago I met her, so 

Just that long it appears 
I've lived. Yes, yes ! I must confess 

My age is just four years. 

O bliss supreme ! My life's a dream ! 

I know what 'tis to love ! 
For this divine joy which is mine 

I thank the gods above. 

The mortal who (this is most true) 

Loves not can not be said 
To live ; but O ! don't ask me, though, 

How long I have been dead. 

Who is Miss Z will doubtless be 

The question now. Well, well, 
She's sweet and fair, has golden hair: 

Her name — no, I won't tell. 



68 A GOOD EXCUSE. 

Time that is given o'er 
To rhyming is ill spent ; 

The world wants something more 
Than studied sentiment. 

There may be no excuse 
For handing out in times 

As hard as these such loose 
And vain and careless rhymes. 

I am full well aware 

That life is sad. I would 

Lighten the gloom and care 
In men's minds if I could. 

It seems a brutal thing. 
Yes, almost like a crime. 

When men are suffering. 

To write light frothy rhyme. 

'T were glorious to be 

A benefactor to 
The race ; but some things " we " 

Poet's can't really do. 

Bards lack the where-with-all 
To be philanthropists ; 

And yet to duty's call 
A true bard always lists. 

I am in one respect 

A bard — slim is my purse. 
But this does not reflect 
t On my heart or my verse. 

My heart is right, and though 

My rhymes are vague and loose, 

Yet they are harmless ; so 
I have a good excuse. 

Rhymes, although careless, may 
Bring cheer sometimes to one ; 
■ If my lines do, who'll say 

That I a wrong have done ? 



TELL ME. 69 



If beneath the mistletoe 

I should meet you, Miss Pitcoe, 
Would a kiss be apropos? 

Prithee tell me, Miss Pitcoe. 



O SUPPOSING! 

O ! supposing that it chances 

I should see you, fair Miss Frances, 

'Neath the Yuletide's mystic branches, 
What then might I do, Miss Frances? 



NIGHT'S WITCHING HOUR. 

I see as night's mid hour advances 
A star — the one that most enhances 

Heaven's beauty above : 

It reminds me so of 
My life's guiding star, which is — Frances. 



BREAK OF DAY. 

The night has departed, and lo ! 

The orient heavens now glow 
With the radiant hues 
Of a new morning, whose 

Beauty calls to my mind — Miss Pitcoe. 



A CHALLENGE. 

Do I not love impartially and well? 

Study the four short poems placed above, 
Two to each star. I challenge men to tell 

Which of those stars I the more truly love. 



70 NOT A FATAL MALADY. 

Daily this girl doth occupy 
My thoughts ; of her at night 

I dream ; I can't well work now ; I 
Have lost my appetite. 

These probably are symptoms of 

The master passion, though 
I ne'er had much to do with love, 

Hence how am I to know? 

I judge, however, that I'm in 
Love's fierce throes, so to speak; 

Else why is it I grow so thin. 
So pale, and O, so weak? 

Heart-bred complaints, though, seldom do 
Cause death; statistics prove 

That men succumb, but rarely to 
The ravages of love. 

I may survive. 'Tis Shakespeare who 
Says, " Men have died " (that's so) 

" And worms have eaten them " (how true) 
" But not for love " — Ah, no. 



STAY. 



I would that contention and strife 
And doubts and heartaches were less rife. 

I want peace — not love, no : 

Love distracts one, and so 
It is peace — peace I want in this life. 

Peace, peace! But there is none, I fear: 
Not while you, of all women, are here. 
Yet with all its unrest, 
Love, yes, love may be best. 
So stay with me, stay with me, dear ! 



UNUTTERABLE LOVE. 71 

Could I but spread my heart before her eyes, 
So she might know the love a-seething there, 

My soul would then sing in the happy skies, 
And not, as now, pine here in sheer despair. 

If only — no, the realizing of 

A dream so blest can ne'er, alas ! be mine ; 
I cannot adequately tell my love; 

My mute harp sheds no melody divine. 

I'm told, and I'm inclined to think it so. 

That those who struggle in the grasp of some 

O'ermastering passion lose their usual flow 
Of oral language and become as diunb. 

Sometimes I almost wish I loved her less ; 

I then could speak with more assurance of 
My adoration. I am, I confess, 

A victim of unutterable love. 



UNUTTERED THOUGHTS. 

My thoughts seem not unfrequently 

To verge on the sublime, 
Yet I lack the ability 

To utter them in rhyme. 

'T would add to the world's happiness 

If, in befitting verse, 
The wealth of thoughts that I possess 

I could sometimes disburse. 

But this I cannot do, and so 
The world must roll along 

As best it may ; I'd like to, though. 
Just help it with a song. 



72 "WHAT'S IN A NAME?" 

The girl that I love 1 call Rose ; 
I do so, as everyone knows, 

Because that is her name ; 

I'd as lief call her " Mame " 
Were she so baptized, I suppose. 

If it were allowable here 

To quote the immortal Shakespeare, 

I'd say " What's in a name ! " 

Call a girl Rose or Mame — 
What you will — she is none the less dear. 

Mame or Rose, Kate or Blanch, Grace or Pearl, 
Madge or May — ah ! a girl is a girl 

For all that. None need fear 

Thus to paraphrase here 
Burns's line. He who fears is a churl. 

It is clearly apparent that my 
Regard for the fair sex is high; 

That I am partial to 

The specimens who 
Are youthful I will not deny. 

A poet's heart, everyone knows. 
With love for some woman o'erflows — 

Burns loved Mary ; Shakespeare 

In his youth held most dear 
Ann Hathaway ; I adore Rose ! 

Great Dante loved Beatrice well, 

As for Petrarch — ah ! his sonnets tell 

How hopeless, how long, 

How vain, yet how strong 
Was that love he through life could not quell. 

We all have our Lauras no doubt. 
A hopeless love is not without 

Its use. Is love wrong 

Which gives birth to a song 
The world could not well do without? 



THE BACHELOR'S SIDE OF IT. 73 

When a fellow has reached forty, 

And has never married, ought he 
Heed those self-established censors who condemn the single life? 

They scold the bachelors freely. 

These critics do, but really. 
What right have they to carp because a man takes not a wife? 

They say that all should marry — 

Every Tom and Dick and Harry. 
If any can't afford to, why, it matters not a jot. 

A man who weds not, they say, 

Is selfish; well, but may they 
Not err in this? Are men who wed less selfish? I think not 

Let me state here most briefly 

Why men marry. It is chiefly 
For love — the worthiest motive ; wealth and station, too, some seet. 

All look for joy in mating. 

Which is proper ; but stop prating 
About how selfish men are who from matrimony keep. 

I'm fond of life. I love it ; 

I like all there is of it. 
Men, women, children, birds and flowers — I like all these. Ah yes! 

I also like the jingle 

Of gold. And I am single. 
To be a Benedict the wherewithal one should possess. 



DANGER. 

Bumptious bachelors better beware. 

By blandishment blooming blondes bear 

Away from men their 

Foolish hearts, and hence where 
Women are we men ought to take care. 



74 AN ELDERLY BACHELOR'S CHANCES 

OR 

LOVE'S FUTURE POSSIBILITIES. 

From me 'twould be folly to seek 

New facts about love, for I can 
Impart none; I have, so to speak, 

Been ever a womanless man. 

I once thought — 'twas when I was young — 
I could fathom Love's sighs, smiles and fears, 

Its joys and its griefs; but I've sung 
Not of such things for many long years. 

In youth I believed that I knew 

How to love. No, my heart is not stone ; 

In Love's cause it might have proved true, 
Yet I walk along life's way — alone. 

A womanless man. Yes, ah yes ! 

And yet, though with life I'm near done, 
I feel even now I possess 

The power of loving — some one. 

Perhaps, yes, perhaps I'll be given 

A chance to partake some day of 
Love's sweets. Ah ! I may meet in heaven 

One who'll love me and whom I shall love. 

Love's coming delights ! O, how dear 
They are ! No, my heart is not stone, 

Else it could not be stirred by Hope's cheer. 
As I pass through life's last scenes — alone. 



BESTIRRING ONE'S SELF. 75 

My life has been so humdrum, so 

Barren of valiant deeds of late. 
In order to please Blanche, I know 

I should do something truly great. 

I fancied that she looked askance 

At me last night ; when I called she 
Was reading an oldtime romance, 

Whose hero she described to me. 

She's fond of heroines, but dotes 

Much more on heroes, so she states : 
Their noble sentiments she quotes. 

A villain she just fairly hates. 

Most kindly is that heart of hers ; 

Its sympathies she can't control; 
Griefs of fictitious characters 

Disturb her sympathetic soul. 

The novel, in which Blanche was so 

Absorbed when I arrived, had for 
Its hero one whom she had no 

Doubt she could worship and adore. 

He was her ideal, so she said — 

This creature of a writer's brain. 
She wept o'er his woes, the tears shed 

By her fell on the book like rain. 

She dwelt, till I got up to go. 

Upon his virtues. It was late 
When I departed. This hero 

I feel constrained to imitate. 

Yes, if I do not soon bestir 

Myself, Blanche may think I am weak ; 
I must, to win a smile from her. 

Create a furore, so to speak. 

Our Longfellow says that a man 

Should " be a hero in the strife ". 
This gentle bard thinks no one can 

Succeed who lives the simple life. 

I've got to do some stirring act — 

Something heroic to retain 
Fair Blanche's favor ; though, in fact, 

My efforts may be wholly vain. 



76 EPISTOLIC DISSONANCE. 

Despite the confession I made you, 

Despite my behavior so mild, 
Despite sundry compliments paid you, 

You yet, in a way that is wild, 

Impugn my last statement, which I, dear, 

Reiterate now as the truth. 
Why you e'en assert that I lie, dear, 

With rashness peculiar to youth. 

In your needless frenzy you blindly. 
Without any semblance of shame. 

Revive a dispute that I kindly 
Had sworn no more to rename. 

1 hus in your anger proceeding. 
At times verging on the profane, 

You lash the poor heart that lies bleeding 
From your pitiless satiric strain. 

At times your remarks are real witty, 
And elegant language you use, 

Yet language devoid of all pity 
Its charms, in a measure, doth lose. 

There is in my heart's depths a chord, dear. 

That would in a sweet unison 
Tune with love if you but afford, dear, 

A reason — ah yes ! only one. 

Love, though, you would try to demolish, 
That chord you would fain have unstrung. 

And Truth — that pure jewel — abolish. 

And with grief a heart you'd have wrung. 



EPISTOLIC DISSONANCE. ^^ 

O base is the one that could do so ! 

This deed I consider most vile. 
It shocks me to think, dear, that you so 

Admire — or seem to — such guile. 

Tenacious as those ties may be, dear. 
That bind us yet they can't withhold. 

Nor sarcastic epistles to me, dear, — 
For you are (on paper) quite bold — 

Restrain me through fear from replying 

To your last epistle, wherein 
You intimate that I am lying. 

And style my " confess " as " too thin ". 

At a disadvantage you take me; 

You knew I had promised to let 
Peace bide in my heart, though you make me 

My kind resolution regret. 

However, I'll not be incited 

To anger ; though much I've forborne, 
I'll treat the last note you indited 

With dignified coolness and scorn. 

I'll put a restraint on my ire : 

I'll leave it for time to show you 
How false is your charge of satire — 

How wrongly my note you construe. 

Though flagrant has been your transgression 
Yet time, dear, might make you more wise : 

'T will prove how sincere 's the confession 
Which you call a " shallow disguise ". 

The scales that adhere to your eyes, dear, 

Can not remain there very long. 
You surely must soon realize, dear, 

How greatly you are in the wrong. 



78 POETRY. 

You will, doubtless, in your next letter 
Acknowledge how hasty you've been, 

And promise henceforth to act better 
And strive my affection to win. 

Postscript. 

When reading the above, 

Which I wrote out of love, 
I trust you'll not proceed with fierce asperity 

To crush me with your store 

Of esoteric lore. 
And satirize me with your old severity. 

O ! for the nonce I pray 

That you will not give way 
To wild outbursts of passion that avail not. 

Let Reason hold control 

O'er your young, reckless soul, 
And then methinks your arguments shall fail not. 



POETRY. 

" There is a pleasure in poetic pains 

Which only poets know." — Cowper. 

Whenever I essay to write 

In verse it seems I get 
A bad headache ; and yet, despite 

My sufferings, I let 

My fancy range. I find it hard 

My soul's flight to restrain. 
The joy such flights afford a bard 

Is not unmixed with pain. 

In this art, though, I must maintain 

There is a special need 
For us who write to stand the strain. 

Oh, think of those who read ! 



JANE BROWN. 79 

Jane Brown came, so to speak, into 

My life when I was twenty-one. 
When youth meets youth beside the blue 

Sea a romance is oft begun. 

This proved to be the very case 

With us whilst recreating at 
The shore ; before I left the place 

We were engaged— no doubt of that. 

Jane was just eighteen, slim and tall. 
Her eyes were bright and deeply blue, 

Her nose retrousse, her waist small, 
Her hair was of a Titian hue. 

We loved — O how we loved ! we two, 

Beside the happy summer sea. 
My time was up before I knew ; 

The ten days passed so speedily. 

Perhaps when wooing on that shore 

I too exuberantly spoke ; 
I told Jane I had skads galore. 

The fact was I was nearly broke. 

When next we met it was in town ; 

Somehow the girl I was to wed 
Learned that I worked ; and so Miss Bro>\-n, 

Without compunction, cut me dead. 

I managed to survive the blow ; 

That chapter of my life is closed. 
Of late I have been thinking, though, 

Of Jane to whom I once proposed. 



80 SADIE AUSTIN. 

Prithee bring to me my lyre. 
O ! an axixious world has long 
Looked for an inspired song; 

I'll now sing it, or expire. 

Woman, thou art (mark my nerve here) 
Heaven's latest, not least though, 
Gift to man: this is, you know, 

A Miltonian thought I serve here. 

Women are, I'm proud to shout this. 
Almost angels. Ah! I feel 
There is one who is the real 

Thing — that's Sadie. Who can doubt this? 

Were my wandering soul e'er lost in 
The immensity of space. 
Its way homeward it could trace 

By thy bright smiles, Sadie Austin. 

I should state that I'm addressing 
The sex in a general way. 
Though Sade moves me most to say : — 

Thou, O woman, art a blessing. 

If from Manayunk to Boston 

Girls were banished, would life be 
Worth the living? Not for me. 

What were life without Miss Austin? 

Life would be without my Sadie's 
Smiles a veritable — well, 
I had better not say " hell " ; 

No, I'll simply call it hades. 



FRIEND FERDINAND. 81 

'Tis my heart that I'm revealing 

In these lines I'm getting off. 

Who can read them and then scoff? 
Surely no one of deep feeling. 

Go, efface the stars that made the 

Heavens yesternight so fair ; 

Blot the sun out, but don't tear 
From my heart the form of Sadie. 



FRIEND FERDINAND. 

{A study in psychology.) 

Ferdie, my friend, stood on the curb, 
Enwrapped in thought was he; 

It seemed a pity to disturb 
His quiet reverie. 

But I was seeking knowledge, so 

I asked him to explain 
Just why it was that people go 

In-doors when it doth rain. 

He corrugated then his brow, 

And, after quite a pause. 
Exclaimed " Ah yes ! I have it now — 

To psychologic laws 

" I turn for the solution of 

This seeming mystery. 
And now like death, like life, like love, 

It all is clear to me : 

" Psychology explains, dear sir. 

The whyfore of the why. 
That is to say, most folks prefer 

To keep their garments dry : 



82 FRIEND FERDINAND. 

" Hence "— " Stop," cried I, "a great light breaks 

In on my muddled brain, 
I see now why a person takes 

To shelter in the rain: 

" It is, ah yes ! because that he 

Desires to keep dry." 
" Just so," said Ferdinand, " but we 

Do not." He winked his eye. 

"O Ferdie! your philosophy 

Is sound ; I feel I ought 
To thank you, for you've given me 

This night much food for thought. 

" How, how can I repay? " Again 

My dear friend Ferdie cast 
On me a subtle glance, and then — 

Yes, I " caught on " at last. 

" Do you object to being ' soaked ' ?" 

I asked, and with a grin 
He answered — " no." He knew I joked, 

And so we two went in. 

We two went in — I won't say where, 

But we went in all right; 
And many moral topics there 

We touched upon that night. 

We grew most eloquent at times; 

In fact, between the drinks 
We — no, I'd better stop these rhymes : 

I've said enough methinks. 



A LESSON. 83 

Mary, you are looking splendid. 

A mere handshake — nothing more ! 

Say, what are those red lips for? 
O! for what were they intended? 

Shall I know their sweetness ever? 

Tell me, O ! do tell me this. 

Let me know, too, what's a kiss. 
You might teach me : you're so clever. 

Fray, be my delineator — 

My osculatory guide. 

Mary, Fate hath long denied 
Me so fair a demonstrator. 

Show me how to go about it. 

Must my arm surround your waist? 

All right : good ! I like the taste 
Of these kisses. Do you doubt it? 

There's no world as fair as this, 
Nor as happy. Ah! 'tis so 
Because now I've learned to know 

From your lips just what a kiss is. 

Wait an instant, my arm's slipping ; 

I shall hold you tighter — thus. 

What if I your ringlets muss 
When Joy's rosiest wine we're sipping ! 

In well doing one can't weary, 

So they say, and, truth to tell, 

I am doing very well. 
Tired? What a foolish query! 



S4 REPARTEE. 

Come, another : don't be chary. 

In this there is nothing wrong. 

Just one more, one sweet and — long. 
Yes, I rather like this, Mary. 

Must we part now? What's the hurry? 

Well, goodby, goodby, goodby. 

I could do this till I die. 
Yes, I'll call again, don't worry. 



THE RIGHT BAIT. 

When I had my " little pile ", 

When I basked in Fortune's smile, 
'Twas then I wooed and then I won my Kate. 

Now I've lost my all, and she 

Has, alas ! rejected me. 
Fool that I was to go and speculate ! 

" Cheer up, old chap," I'm told, 

" Though your girl has, like your gold, 
" Gone where the woodbines twine, rail not 'gainst fate ; 

" Still in the sea one ought 

" To find good fish uncaught." 
True, but you see I now have not the bait. 



REPARTEE. 

Give me a penny and then I 

Will tell my thoughts — what do you say? 
No, no ; your thoughts ; was her reply, 

Are not worth, sir, such an outlay. 

You may be right, I answered. Yes, 
As a rule, my thoughts are, 't is true, 

Not worth a cent; now they're worth less; 
I've just been thinking, dear, of you. 



PRACTICE. 85 

Practice makes perfect." Yes, but I 
The axiom would qualify 

Somewhat ; 
If it were true, then I would be 
A famous poet, which, you see, 

I'm not. 

When a mere child I lisped in rhyme, 
So I've been at it now sometime. 

O dear! 
Of late I've felt I never will 
Be quite as world-renowned as Bill 

Shakespeare. 

I've practiced and have tried as hard 
Perhaps as Stratford's noted bard 

To gain 
The approbation of men in 
This world ; my efforts, though, have been 

In vain. 

Once with some verses I essayed 
To win the favor of a maid. 

How rash ! 
She was my world — too high I aimed ; 
She read my verses, then exclaimed : 

" What trash ! " 

This criticism seemed unkind. 

Yet, though it brought unto my mind 

Distress, 
It taught me one most useful thing — 
That practice does not always bring 

Success. 



S6 IMAGINATION. 

Assuredly imagination fills 

A human want ; hvundrum indeed would be 
Existence here without that which instills 

Into all lives a little gayety. 

Wherefore, then, is the wrong in living in 
A fancied world, peopled by souls that glow 

With kindliness — a world where one may win 
That love for which the heart doth hunger so„ 

Nor is it wrong to prate, as some do, of 

Things one ne'er knew or may know ; I myself 

Do frequently expatiate on love ; 

I'm apt also to dwell on fame and wealth. 

Yet the fact is that I with all such things 
Am unfamiliar; still I'm not dismayed. 

A rhymer manages to rhyme who brings 
Imagination freely to his aid. 

Were poets barred (I surely mean no pun) 

From exercising in their art divine 
Fancy's rare gift, the world then would have none 

Of Shakespeare's lines and few, but few af mine! 



A FOOLISH QUESTION. 

Have I e'er loved? Most certainly. 

A man of fifty must have done 
At times some loving. Why ask me 

This question? 'Tis a foolish one. 

Yes, I have loved ; but whether they 
Who in past days my fancy caught 

Ever returned my love — but nay. 
About such details I'll say naught. 



FOREBODINGS. 87 

In youth my hopes were high ; 'twas then I sought 
The favor of the Muse, and life seemed sweet ; 

I dreamt of love, of fame, of wealth; methought 
The world before long would be at my feet. 

I've striven hard through many lonely years 
To gain the honors youth conceived ; but now 

My mind is sore perplexed, for it appears 
Those honors have eluded me somehow. 

The Muse heeds not my passionate appeal ; 

My most vociferous calls she fails to hear ; 
And consequently some concern I feel 

Respecting my poetical career. 

I almost fear the world will never care 

To laud me very highly if at all. 
I'm gradually beginning to despair, 

Now since the Muse responds not to my call. 



MY FINISH. 

I've wooed her in a way that seemed to me 
No mortal girl could possibly withstand; 

Yet, spite of my impetuosity, 

I have thus far failed to secure her hand. 

Yes, this fair girl — the fairest of them all — 
To my appeals has seemed of late to turn 

A deafened ear. I totter to my fall ; 
My ultimate extinction I discern. 



88 ON THE BEACH. 

I knew not if her hair was light 
Or dark, or if 'twas brown or red ; 

To keep it dry she had, drawn tight. 
An oil-skin cap upon her head. 

Her face I saw — she had blue eyes ; 

I saw her shapely amis ; I saw 
Her other shapely limbs likewise. 

A bloomer bathing-suit she wore. 



'O 



A natty swimming garment, none 

Too cumbersome: her shoulders — bare 

And spray-splashed — glistened in the smi. 
I saw most all else but her hair. 

I saw her forehead — not those locks 

Which crowned the same : I saw her nose, 

And mouth, and chin ; she wore no socks. 
And so I saw her dimpled toes. 

She wore a smile and not much more. 
But one in summer must get near 

To nature; when on Jersey's shore 

One has to show good form, 'tis clear. 

Her beauteous curves could not escape 
Detection ; 'twere those tresses of 

Hers that lay hidden — not her shape, 
For her suit fitted like a glove. 

I saw a great deal of that fair 

Young girl, yes, a great deal that day. 

And yet the color of her hair 
I know not, I regret to say. 

Still, though unable to behold 

Her crowning glory, should I feel 

Cast down? Nay, I'm somewhat consoled: 
I saw, as I've said, a great deal ! 



AT THE SHORE. 



89 



We met by chance, 

'Twas on the pier; 

Her artless glance 

Drew me anear ; 



Ere I keeled o'er 

In that strange faint 
There at the shore, 

This fair young saint 



I bowed, and ere 

We knew it, we 
Were talking there 

Most earnestly. 

We talked and sipped 
Cool drinks, the while 

My heart was gripped 
By her sweet smile. 

Her smile likewise 

My dazed brain seemed 
To hypnotize ; 

I slept and dreamed. 

I woke with pain ; 

Folks 'round me jeered; 
My watch and chain 

Had disappeared. 

Some one also 

Had swiped my purse. 
Rough? Yes, but O! 

What was far worse. 



Drew close to tell, 

With tenderness, 
Her name as well 

As her address. 

Then, whilst her low 
Voice sounded sweet, 

I fell, as though 
Dead, at her feet. 

Where now is she? 

Ah! I infer 
They who robbed me 

Have kidnapped her. 

When I lay dead 
To the world they 

Then spirited 
My love away. 

My dream of bliss, 

Alas ! is o'er. 
I meant on this 

Health-giving shore 



The lady of 

Those smiles so kind, 
My new, true love, 

I could not find. 



A week to stay; 

I left there, "broke", 
The second day. 

It was no joke. 



My lost one ! Where 
Is she? To my 

Sad soul's cry there 
Comes no reply. 



90 'TWEEN SALES. 

Behind the far 

End counter, where 

The bargains are 
In ribbons rare, 

I stand; and oft 

'Tween sales, ah me! 

I hear the soft 
Sound of the sea. 

And so I grieve 

And sigh sometimes. 

And, 'tween sales, weave 
Clandestine rhymes 

About a shore 

On which waves dash — 
Er — yeSj, three for 

Ten cents. Thanks. Cash! 



IN DOUBT. 

O, to be loved ! and, O, to love ! 

And I would like to know 
Which of the two confers more of 

Real joy and which more woe. 

I love, but reciprocity 

Therein may not, look you, 

Be mine : hence loving causes me 
A poignant pang or two. 

And so, as one might well infer, 

I wish to ascertain 
Whether my joy, if loved by her. 

Would be devoid of pain. 



THE WOOING OF IT. VI 

Last night I called upon Louise ; 

About the hour of nine 
I threw myself down on my knees, 

And asked her to be mine. 

The proffered honor she declined ; 

A speedy death seemed my 
Only recourse ; I changed my mind, 

I was too young to die. 

And so, strange as it may appear, 

I did not last night blow 
Out my poor brains. I still live here 

In this sad world below. 

My life, of course, is blighted, yet 

I need not quite despond, 
I know a very nice brunette, 

Yes, nicer than the blonde. 

This haughty blonde who rudely threw 

Me down but yesternight 
Is not the only maiden who 

Lives on the earth — not quite. 

A man in courting must, indeed, 

Be philosophic; when 
With the first girl you don't succeed, 

Call elsewhere — try again. 

" There are as good fish in the sea 
As e'er were caught," they say ; 
And if I persevere, ah me ! 
I may land one some day. 



92 A PLAIN STATEMENT. 

No man is perfect ; very few- 
Women are absolutely so. 

This statement which I make is true ; 
I'm more frank than chivalrous though. 

But I am, and have ever been, 
A stickler for truth ; that's why 

A woman I may never win : 
I cannot flatter — cannot lie. 



DIPLOMACY. 

Are women angels? I don't know; 

Perhaps they are ; quite often, sir, 
[With mental reservation, though,] 

I speak of them as if they were. 

When we write verses or propose 

A woman's health those doubts w^hich most 
Perplex us we need not disclose. 

Why spoil a rhyme or mar a toast? 

I, diplomatically, call 

Women angelic ; while I know 
They are not saints, that is, not all, 

Still it seems best to call them so. 

Men cannot be too fulsome when 
Upon the fair they lavish praise. 

Brave words, not deeds, enable men 
To win a woman nowadays. 



TRUE VALOR. 

When I meet a guy on the street 
Who calls me a bleary deadbeat. 

Do I tell him he lies? 

Yes, if he's half my size. 
I'm fearless, but not indiscreet. 



SOMETHING LEARNED. 93 

Should critics style my poems crude, 
Should connoisseurs of verse conclude 
That I am no — er — well, no prude, 

I'd feel but slight surprise. 
'Tis true, I call a spade a spade ; 
Since Thursday night last, when I played 
That game of cards, I've been afraid 

To call one otherwise. 

On that most fateful round that night 

I held both bowers, left and right, 

And clubs were trumps, which pleased me quite ; 

The stakes were high, not low. 
My spirits, too, were high ; we all 
Were feeling fine; each one could call 
For what he wanted ; a high ball 

I had, some beers also. 

I held three spades, one of the same 
I — not without a sense of shame — 
Tried hard to pass off in the game 

As a club, but they saw 
Me thus finessing ; they arose 
And swatted me ; they bruised my nose, 
And blacked my eye, and tore my clothes, 

And kicked me on the floor. 

In life I've had my ups and downs. 

More downs than ups though ; yes, Fate's frowns 

And crosses, not her smiles and crowns, 

Have been mine; still I've made 
Some progress in the world. Ah, who 
Has failed to learn a thing or two 
In life's stern strife? I've learnt, look you, 

To call a spade a spade. 



94 CURBSTONE MUSINGS. 



A PURPOSEFUL POEM. 

The purpose being the reconciliation of two young ladies who un- 
fortunately have differed over an inconsequential matter. 

'Tis hot — red hot, and I am sitting 
Upon the curb in front our door ; 

Though such a seat is unbefitting 
One dealing in poetic lore. 

Yet, as I said, 'tis hot, and so I 

Fain some pleasant nook would seek; 

And here, where gutter zephyrs blow, I 
Am quite happy, so to speak. 

But not alone the gutter breezes 

Cause me such perfect bliss of mind ; 

'Tis memory that ofttimes pleases 
More than those joys of carnal kind. 

And now, far more than balmy airs do, 

Memory my mind doth cheer : 
All sorrows, griefs, all pains and cares do 

(Happy riddance!) disappear: 

And many a pleasant, fleeting hour 

Far in the past I think me of : 
Living them o'er by memory's power 

With these two fair young maids I love. 

The one a blonde of figure slight, yet 

Well proportioned is the dame ; 
The other equally as bright, yet 

Of a somewhat larger frame. 

Their names — ah ! I cannot express them 

Without feeling quite a thrill : 
Friends familiarly address them 

Oftentimes as Ann and Lill. 



CURBSTONE MUSINGS. 95 

Each one is O ! so sweetly utter, 

Their minds with knowledge, too, are fiU'd ; 
The slight maid sets my heart aflutter 

No less than she of larger build. 

And yet it grieves me — grieves me greatly 
To think that now those two should be 

Estranged, when their young hearts so lately 
Glowed warm with love's serenity. 

But yesterday the ties that bound them 

Seemed of such durability: 
Now in the storm that swirls around them 

How insecure they seem to be. 

Are those ties to be rent asunder ! 

Is love to hatred thus to change ! 
Ah, on the curb I sit and wonder : 

Such things I deem as passing strange. 

Alas ! that love's pure spark should die out, 
That friendship should to hatred grow. 

In agony I almost cry out; 

I feel such sudden ruptures so. 

Shall those maids ever be as strangers? 

Shall they drift more and more apart? 
Ah ! time, that works so many changes, 

May reunite each severed heart. 

Yes, as the years pass onward, they will 

Learn to forgive and to forget. 
Pleasant it is to think some day will 

See those maidens dear friends yet. 

A lifetime passed without forgiving ! 

Two hearts seared by the fires of hate ! 
Who, 'mid these mundane scenes are living, 

Can calmly such things contemplate? 



96 fawcett's tree. 

It cannot be, and thus I know the 

Reconciliation grand 
Shall come : all indications show the 

Happy day is near at hand. 

One feels it in the air. The twitter 
Of the birds on Fawcett's tree 

Foretells to me, the curbstone sitter, 
That love triumphant soon will be. 

Knowing, therefore, those two shall meet and 

Bosom friends be as before, 
I'll now forsake my curbstone seat and 

To an end these verses draw. 

So fare thee well, O ! maiden slender. 
And thou whose form is not so frail. 

Within my heart that passion tender 
For both those maids shall e'er prevail. 

And though at Crystal Lake friend Lill is, 
Distance can ne'er make her less dear : 

And though friend Ann at far Bushkill is, 
I love as if she now were here. 



FAWCETT'S TREE. 

{Written twenty-seven years after Curbstone Musings.) 

How often in the ample shade 

Of Fawcett's tree I've sat and wooed 

The Muse, while on the boughs that swayed 
Above me the birds billed and cooed. 

By ruthless hands that tree has been 
Uprooted — that old maple tree, 

Which flourished so and blossomed in 
The days that were so dear to me. 



DREAMS. 97 

One oft is disappointed when 

In the possession of 
A wished-for object ; let me, then, 

But dream of her I love. 

Let me lie in the shade of this 

Tall and umbrageous fir 
And dream, just dream. O ! it is bliss 

To dream, to dream — of her ! 

Delusions ! Well, if dreams be so. 

What then? Ah! I prefer 
To hug delusions rather — no, 

I'd rather, much, hug her. 



THE SHIP OF STATE 

OR 

VOTES FOR WOMEN. 

If woman be given a vote, 

The Ship of State, we're told, will float 

With more grace on life's seas. 

Is there need, though, in these 
Days for woman to mati any boat? 

The idea my mind somewhat shocks. 
Why should womankind shed her frocks 

And don sailor togs? 

Is our Ship in the fogs. 
And foundering now on the rocks? 

The hand which once rocked to and fro 

A babe's cradle is, as we know, 
Losing its kindly grip 
On the same. Does the ship 

Need that guiding hand now? Maybe so. 



98 A MYSTERY. 

i 

" In sooth I know not why I am so sad." — Shakespeare. 

I'm sad. Why? I don't know. 

I'm in the best of health; 
There are no debts I owe ; 

I've a fair store of wealth. 

I dance, am fond of balls ; 

I should be happy quite; 
The clubs and music halls 

Are my chief haunts at night. 

I golf, play bridge, I mote ; 

I've hosts of friends, no foes. 
I'm in the swim; I dote 

On horse and canine shows. 

Pleasure by night and day 

I strenuously woo; 
Why, then, O ! tell me, pray, 

Do I at times feel blue? 

My appetite is good; 

The girl I love loves me ; 
The day is bright. Why should 

I so unhappy be ? 

My spirits should be high 

Instead of being low. 
Yes, I am sad ; but why, 

I really do not know. 

Why, at times, do we sigh 

When suffering no pain? 
This is a problem I, 

For one, can not explain. 



THE FRIDAY EVENING READING CLUB. 99 

To each and every fair member thereof this poem is respectfully 

dedicated. 

I am no bard (it needs not this confession 
To prove the fact) and yet should I to-night 

Invoke the Muse, would it be a transgression ! 
How would The Club view my poetic flight ; 

What would those learnt members say, I wonder, 
If for a theme their club I were to choose? 

Alas, what doubts and fears I labor under ! 
P rhaps I had'nt ought to call the Muse. 

However, I shall try the rhythmic racket : 
Despite my fears, in Poesy's realms I'll soar. 

[Though I should state here, in a sort of bracket, 
That I'm no poet, as I said before.] 

Yet would " The Club " — a theme so grandly thrilling — 
Excite the prosiest mind ; and so, perchance. 

If the dear members of that club are willing 
To scan these lines, they might repay a glance. 

The Club — The Reading Club ! O how I love it ! 

I love it for my sisters' sake, and yet 
Those other fellows' sisters who are of it 

Cause me to love it none the less, you bet. 

Methinks this club, devoted so to reading. 
Would captivate all hearts as it hath mine ; 

[But here, e'er further in these lines proceeding, 
I'd say that rhyming is not in my line.] 

The Club I love — let me this fact state clearly — 

Not solely as an institution, for 
Each individual member I love dearly : 

Each individual member I adore. 



100 THE READING CLUB. 

And I would in a reverential manner 

Breathe, as it were, their sweet baptismal names : 

I would begin with Lillian and Anna, 
The appellations of two charming dames. 

They — these two maidens — are associated 

With my life's brightest joys ; had I the skill 

Of versifying (which I've not, as stated,) 
I would immortalize both Ann and Lill. 

Anna and Lill ! O ! I have many reasons 
For liking them. He who does not revere 

Anna and Lillian " is fit for treasons, 

And stratagems, and spoils " — to quote Shakespeare. 

Man is too weak to withstand Beauty's power. 

My heart was whole, and free, and happy till 
I met — O fatal day ! O fatal hour ! 

Those sirens of The Club — Anna and Lill. 

The next name, and I don't know a sublimer, 
Is Em'ly ; it for sweetness takes the cake. 

[At this juncture I should say that as a rhymer 
I would doubtless be considered a mistake.] 

I breathe the name of Minnie now — a good one. 

Christian names my friend Fitzpatrick cannot change : 
And it is better so, for really would one 

Desire that dear name to e'er sound strange? 

I whisper next — not without realizing 

Its beauty and its grace — the name of Lou. 

That I should like this name is not surprising. 
Knowing its fair possessor as I do. 

Next Fannie, meaning free, claims my attention : 
No name with more of tenderness is fraught. 

[Perhaps 'twere well to casually mention 
ITiat writing poetry can't be called my forte.] 



THE READING CLUB. 101 

The name of Helen follows. Ah ! without it 

No galaxy of names would be complete ; 
The pleasant memories that cling about it 

Endear to me this name so truly sweet. 

To me the name has ever seemed symbolic 

Of chivalry, of beauty, love and joy. 
Adown the vista of past years historic 

I gaze and see that Helen fair of Troy. 

Now Cometh Jeanie : 'tis a name delightsome, 

And I express it with a thrill of bliss. 
Were I a poet — which I'm not — I'd write some 

Most stunning sonnets to a name like this. 

Now, heart of mine, whyfore so quickly beatest? 

Ah ! thou hast reason, for I breathe the name 
Of Mary. Peerless name ! three of the sweetest 

Members in The Club possess this same. 

Next— Kate ! " Kate of Kate-Hall, my super-dainty 

Kate." Mamie too, a very worthy mate. 
O ! at life's end, 'mid crashing worlds, I'll faintly 

Breathe, ere I fall, those loved names — Mame and Kate ! 

And now comes Alice. Alice ! Poets, maybe, 
Might on this sweetest name in Christendom 

Do justice if they try; but I, fair lady, 

Dare not presume on Poesy's harp to thrum. 

I must be silent ; poets may aspire 

To reign with gods whilst I creep on earth's plain; 
I cannot wholly stifle, though, the fire 

Which smoulders in my heart and soul and brain. 

Sometime, fair Alice, those now smouldering embers 
In my soul may, when I pronounce your name, 

Too fiercely glow ; 'twill shock The Club's fair members. 
Perhaps, to watch my soul dissolve in flame. 



102 THE READING CLUB. 

With Rose and Eve * my list of names is ended. 

What other club a nobler list can show? 
[Here I'd remark that nature ne'er intended 

Me for a poet, as my friends well know.] 

I lack, 'mongst other things, that power of blending 
My burning thoughts in verse. Ye gods ! what grand 

And eloquent effusions I'd be sending 
The Club did I the poet's art command. 

Then, favored of the Muse, I could be singing 
The praises of The Club in worthy strains : 

Then would I know the rapture felt in winging 
One's flight in Fancy's limitless domains. 

Then sweeter songs from my heart would be welling 
Than mortals e'er yet heard : my spirit soon 

Would know an ecstasy beyond all telling : 
My soul from an excess of joy would swoon. 

An exaltation in its throes would hold me : 

Aye ! and a love, no mythologic god 
E'er understood, would evermore enfold me 

Were I but that which I'l ne'er be — a bard. 

No, 'tis not mine, alas ! to sing the praises 
Of that dear club. Let happier poets weave 

Its noble deeds into immortal phrases : 

Let others speak those names I dare but breathe. 

Let abler pens record for future ages 
The Club's high aims, the conquests it has made. 

Its readings of the poets and the sages. 
Its balls, its pic-nics and its — Lemonade. 

* This may be said to be something of a problem poem. Among 
the various names appearing in the lines are those of the writer's 
two sisters ; the problem is to find these two names. 



THE TASK. 103 

[N. B. — Not Cowper's.] 

I sing the Ringlet. I who lately sang 

The Lily and the Rose, and touched with fear 

The tuneful chords, and with a trembling hand, 

Escaped — but not unscathed — from that rash flight, 

Now seek excitement in another theme ; 

The theme is great, and great also and grand 

The occasion — for fair Ann commands the song. 

— Cowper, slightly changed. 

Dearest maid. 

To my aid 
I do now call the Muse. 

Bard ne'er had 

Theme more glad 
Than the one I shall choose : 

For I'll dwell, 

Annabelle, 
On the power which lies 

In thy small 

Ring, that all 
Who behold it would prize. 

From thy hand 

The gold band 
Was received, and I swear 

By the said 

Hand, fair maid, 
Of thy ring to take care. 

Yes, I'll cling 

To the ring 
Thou hast kindly loaned me : 

When away 

Its bright ray 
Will recall thoughts of thee. 



104 



THE TASK. 



Of thy ring 

E'en a king 
Might justly be vain : 

As for me, 

Ann, I see 
It were much to attain. 

While to sing 

Of thy ring 
Where'er I may go 

Will, without 

Any doubt, 
Be the best joy I'll know. 

At the store 

As I pore 
Over musty accounts — 

As in sad 

Mood I add 
Up my ledger amounts. 

From my book 

I shall look 
[When the " boss " is not near] 

To delight 

In the sight 
Of that ringlet so dear. 

On the street. 

Too, most sweet 
Will be those thoughts that spring 

To my mind 

As I find 
Time to gaze at the ring. 

And also 

I shall know 
A joy full and profound 

In home's dear 

Atmosphere, 
Where such peace doth abound : 



There — yes, there 

As I wear 
Thy bright jewel, to me 

Life will seem 

As a dream 
Full of deep ecstasy. 

Though I roam 

Far from home, 
Though I traverse the sea. 

Yet thy ring 

Oft will bring 
Pleasant mem'ries to me. 

Grief or woe 

I'll not know 
Whilst the gem I retain, 

In its bright 

Rays of light 
Lurks a charm for all pain. 

And despair 

And dull care 
That charm will dispel. 

There is joy. 

No alloy. 
In this ring from a belle. 

Dangers all 

That befall 
One in life I'll not fear 

While possessed 

Of this blessed 
Golden ring, Anna dear. 

Pearls or gold. 

Wealth untold. 
All the treasures of earth 

Are, of course. 

But as dross 
To thy ring's precious worth. 



THE TASK. 



105 



E'en a star, 

That afar 
Lights the by-ways of space, 

Would in shame 

Hide its flame 
Should thy ring meet its face. 

Ah, sweet one, 

Should the sun 
Be destroyed, and no more 

On this sphere 

Cast its clear 
Radiant beams as before, 

I would not 

Care a jot, 
No indeed : very soon 

The dark gloom 

I'd illume 
With the brightness of noon. 

What I'd take 

Thus to make 
Good the harm that was done 

Would be thy 

Ring, which I 
Deem more bright than the sun. 

Time may fly, 

Days glide by. 
Ages cycle away, 

Death lay low 

All I know, 
Kingdoms fall to decay, 

Yet, my friend. 

Naught can tend 
To induce me, I trow, 

E'er to fling 

'Way thy ring 
Which is so treasured now. 



There's a spell, 

Annabelle, 
In the jewel, whose power 

Will control 

My rapt soul 
Until life's latest hour. 

Yet, indeed, 

There's no need 
To extol that dear loan. 

Who would not 

Treasure what 
On thy finger once shone ? 

Breathes a man, 

My dear Ann, 
So phlegmatic and cold 

Who, unmoved, 

Could that loved 
Golden object behold? 

Does thy hand 

Miss that grand 
Sparkling gem that I hold? 

Art thou much 

Grieved that such 
A rare circlet of gold 

Is now mine 

And not thine? 
O ! how generous of thee 

Thus to loan 

Me thine own 
Ring. What honor for me ! 

Should harsh fate 

Separate 
Us in far future days, 

If we two 

Must pursue 
Through this life different ways, 



106 



THE TASK. 



Still to me 

Memory 
Will past pleasures restore : 

'Twill disclose 

To me those 
Days when I thy ring wore. 

Thus a balm 

That shall calm 
My wild spirit I'll find 

In those rich 

Pleasures which 
Mem'ry brings to the mind. 

But perhaps 

Time's long lapse 
From thy happier mind 

May efface 

Ev'ry trace 
Of such thoughts as this kind. 

Yes, dear girl, 

'Mid the whirl 
Of that life thou shalt know. 

Amid the 

Gayety 
Of its pomp and its show. 

Scenes of past 

Days shall fast 
From thy mind be removed. 

Nor wilt thou 

Think of how 
Olden friends have once loved. 



Ah, around 

Thee'll be found 
Newer friends who may tell 

Tales that will 

Thy mind fill 
With strange thoughts, Annabelle. 

And yet through 

All these new 
Scenes that life doth unfold 

Thou may'st yet 

Not forget 
Those warm friendships of old- 

O ! how few 

Friendships true 
Are in human hearts born : 

Ofttimes I 

With a sigh 
Hear those vows falsely sworiu 

Love, too, finds 

In men's minds, 
When serene are the skies. 

An abode, 

But grief's load 
Soon doth sever its ties. 

Ah, methinks 

The gold links 
Of a Love's binding chain 

Would outlast 

The worst blast 
That may mark sorrow's reign^ 



Nor no dim 

Thoughts of him 
Whom that ring once made glad 

Will thy joy 

E'er destroy — 
Will thy mind e'er make sad. 



Yet true hearts 

Play their parts 
In life's drama : one reads 

In these late 

Days of great 
Men, and their noble deeds. 



THE TASK. 



107 



Life ! Ah me, 

Mystery 
Of unsolved mysteries. 

A frail barque 

In the dark, 
Drifting on unknown seas. 

Life, dear friend. 

Soon shall end : 
This probation of ours 

Will before 

Long be o'er : 
Therefore those fleeting hours 

Which, dear Ann, 

Make the span 
Of our lives here below, 

We should by 

All means try 
To improve as they go. 

We, in fact, 

Should so act 
On this world's transient stage 

As to feel 

O'er us steal 
No regrets in old age. 

My poor muse 

Please excuse : 
And yet poor, still the thought 

That my verse 

Might be worse 
Is with happiness fraught. 



That would tell, 

Annabelle, 
In an adequate way, 

What the heart 

Would impart? 
Language cannot portray 

All that I 

Feel as my 
Pen this paper glides o'er. 

Ah ! what deep 

Longings sleep 
Now within my heart's core. 

Still I feel 

As I reel 
Off these lines that 'twere best 

I should keep. 

So to speak, 
A most strict outlook, lest 

One shall trace 

On my face 
Something that might reveal 

Feelings that 

I am at 
So much pain to conceal. 

Now, though poor, 

I assure 
Thee my rhymes are sincere : 

Yet I send 

Them, kind friend, 
With much trembling and fear. 



Yet how can 

Any man 
With a subject so grand 

Hope to do 

Justice ? Who 
Could find words at command 



O! if I 

By and by 
Wealth and power and fame 

Only could 

Gain, it would 
Then be m)^ dearest aim 



108 



THE TASK. 



To outpour 

My heart's lore 
In poesy divine : 

Then, fore'er 

Free from care, 
O what joys would be mine? 

Then I'd soar 

Evermore 
In the realms of the sky, 

And would string 

Thy dear ring 
On the clouds floating by. 

And where waves 
Dash through caves 

On a storm-beaten shore, 
And the rocks 
Quake with shocks 

From the thunder's loud roar, 

I would dwell — 

Knowing well 
That forebodings of harm 

Would depart 

From my heart 
Whilst I cling to that charm. 

Oft with Love 

In a grove 
I'd while the bright hours : 

Or would play 

All the day 
In Flora's fair bowers. 



I v/ould like 
Much to strike 

On a fair Eskimo. 

But a " mash" 
Might be rash 

In that region of snow. 

Therefore I, 

Ann, would hie 
Me to balmier lands : 

I would dwell 

For a spell 
On Sahara's hot sands ; 

Or, with pride. 

On the wide 
Ocean's bosom I'd sail 

In a shell 

That no swell 
Of the awfulest gale 

Could upset : 

For ne'er yet 
Any talisman was owned 

Near so sure 

As this pure 
Golden band I was loaned. 

In his skiff 

Then "Friend Cliff" 
On old ocean would sport ; 

And to isles, 

Distant miles, 
Would quite often resort. 



To the lone 

Northern zone 
With my " Mizpah " I'd haste : 

For a change 

I would range 
O'er that ice-covered waste. 



On the blue 

Billows— Whew— ! 
My soul would on the brine 

Throb and beat, 

Anna sweet. 
With a rapture divine. 



THE TASK. 



109 



I, afloat 

In my boat 
On the wild boundless seas, 

Would sometimes 

Sail to climes 
Afar distant from these. 



But such bliss 

I in this 
"Vale of tears" shall ne'er know; 

'Twere a dream 

Too supreme 
To be realized so. 



Yet not long 

I among 
Stranger folks would remain : 

I would yearn 

To return 
To fair Anna again. 

I would miss 

The calm bliss 
Which thy presence doth give 

Without thee 

I would be, 
Love, unable to live. 

So my stanch 

Craft I'd launch 
Once again on the main. 

And ne'er pause 

Till the shores 
Of my own land I'd gain. 

And each night 

I would write 
Of the wonders I'd see, 

And I'd fail 

Not to mail 
My accounts, sweet, to thee. 



For, Anna, 

How can a 
Poor fellow like me 

Gain so great 

An estate? 
No, it never may be ! 

Life, alas ! 

I must pass 
Amid sorrow and gloom. 

But Death's sting 

Soon will bring 
Me the peace of the tomb. 

But for thee 

May joys be. 
O ! may Fate's fingers fair 

Wreathe a bright 

Crown of light 
Round thy ri?ig-\ets of hair. 

May thy feet 

Tread the sweet 
Paths of Duty and Truth : 

Then wilt thou, 

E'er as now. 
Keep the charms of thy youth. 



Then perchance 

Thou wouldst glance 
On the poems I'd send, 

And e'en praise 

My poor lays. 
And e'en style me thy friend. 



And at last 

When life's fast 
Fading scenes are all o'er. 

There awaits 

Through those gates 
To that bright farther shore 



110 



PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. 



A world of 

Purest love 
Whose delights are for thee ; 

Thy life there 

In that fair 
Land eternal shall be. 

Though aware 
That thou'lt tear 

Or consign to the fire 

These fond rhymes 
Which at times 

I have tuned to my lyre, 

Still I fain 

Thou wouldst deign 
To peruse them before 

Thou shalt lay 

Them away 
On Oblivion's shore. 



Yet if these 

Stanzas please 
[Though rhyme's not in my line] 

I, dear Ann, 

Really can 
Have no cause to repine. 

Au revoir. 

I'm near o'er 
With these verse lines so brief : 

I suppose 

When I close 
'Twill afford thee relief. 

So I'll bore 

Thee no more. 
But will — with thy leave — 

Only ask 

That "The Task" 
Thou wilt kindly receive. 



PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. 

When a friendship termed platonic 
Turns to love then one may be 

Sure that Cupid (the sardonic 
Little rogue) smiles knowingly. 

Those philosophers reputed 
To be so profoimdly smart 

Must perforce defer to Cupid 
In all matters of the heart. 

Thou, O Cupid, through the ages 
Hast o'erruled our destinies — 

Those heart theories of the sages 
Are the merest vagaries. 



AERONAUTICS. Ill 

I like to read about those daring manbirds and their flights ; 

The altitude to which they aviate fills me with awe. 
The Harmons, and the Brookins, and the Drexels, and the Wrights, 

In the airy space above us certainly know how to soar. 

O ! how exhilarating to the body, mind and soul 

It must be to leave the earth awhile, to watch it fade from view. 
While in a magic vehicle, o'er which we have control, 

To mount and dip and speed and drift far off in heaven's blue. 

To revel thus among the fleecy clouds far beyond where 

The birds, whose flights we envied once, dare never, never go, 

Is to realize a rapture and an ecstasy more rare 
Than ever yet was dreamt of on the care-filled earth below. 

But earth exacts a toll from those who take a skyward trip ; 

A life she sometimes calls for from the daring and the brave ; 
She asked this of bold Johnstone and he calmly took the dip 

Down, down, into her bosom, where he now rests — in a grave. 



TO-MORROW. 

To-morrow the sunbeams will fall, 
Most likely, on land and on sea; 

But it is not certain at all 

If those beams will fall upon me. 

Not certain to fall, I should say, 
On my living form : but these lines 

Are doleful. One ought to be gay 
While on his live clav the sun shines. 



112 REGARDING LOVE. 

(A Confession.) 

There've been times when I've wanted to 
Know how it felt (I'm frank, you see) 

To be loved by a women who 

Would think the world and all of me. 

For me no fair one's heart thus far 
Has with love's kindly ardor glowed. 

Love ! Ah, its sweets and triumphs are 
Ne'er to be mine. I'm growing old. 

I philosophically, though. 

The situation contemplate. 
All things considered, I have no 

Reason at all to rail at fate. 

Love has its cares — is this not true? 

Those cares I have escaped. Ah ! had 
I wedded, would I now, look you. 

Be happier or else more sad? 

I might have won a heart that would 
Have afterwards grown cold ; if so. 

My over-tender nature could 

Hardly have weathered such a blow. 

I know how weak are human ties ; 

I know how love is apt to fail ; 
I know how many, many lies 

Are uttered at the altar rail. 

The blasted hopes, the blighted lives. 
The trustful love so often slain, 

The wretched husbands, the sad wives, 
The wrecks astrewn upon the main : 

I am aware of these sad things ; 

I've grown somewhat irresolute 
Whilst contemplating them. What brings 

Such woes? Is love an evil root? 



REGARDING LOVE. 113 

Should one love less devotedly 

In order to obtain more of 
True peace and joy? Or, say, should we 

Dispense — vi^hoUy dispense with love ? 

The consequences of too great 

A passion startles me somewhat ; 
It makes me rather hesitate 

To launch a matrimonial yacht. 

I am too timid some may think. 

They who risk nothing, nothing win. 
I dallied too long on the brink 

Of Love's sea ; I should have plunged in. 

Regrets may cloud my future days. 

I was, as I have found too late. 
Too vacillating in my ways. 

And yet I rail not against fate. 

To win a heart that would remain 

Loyal and leal through all of life 
Were bliss indeed. But O ! the pain 

Of having an unloving wife. 

The latter possibility 

Might have been mine. Doubtless it would. 
And so in my philosophy 

I think things have worked for my good. 

I hold, so far as love's concerned. 

That I have acted well my part 
In this life ; yes, I feel I've earned 

The peace that bides now in my heart. 

The peace that bides ! Ah me ! some vague 

And faint regrets, I must aver. 
Disturb that peace and seem to plague 

Me sometimes — when I think of her. 



114 NINETEEN-SIX. 

Farewell, Old Year ; thy end appro acheth now ; 

Death soon shall claim thee. There are those who will 

Deplore thy dying — those whose eyes will fill 
With tears when at the midnight hour thou 
Ent'reth thy grave : for thou hast seemed somehow 

Like to a friend; and we, O friend, until 

Life is no more may in our mind-depths still 
Live thy days over. Memory will endow 
Our lives with her stored wealth: and thus, dear Year, 

Shall we, through all the sorrows that might be, 

Find consolation's balm in memory. 
O ! when our time is come, and death draws near, 
May some kind friend be by to shed a tear, 

Even as we do now, Old Year, for thee. 



OUTDOORS. 

For poets' odes to spring I care 

But little ; I prefer 
Outdoors, where Nature is, and where 

I may commune with her. 

A library ! 'Tis a good thing ; 

I scoff not at men's views. 
But outdoors, on the fields, in spring, 

'Tis pleasanter to muse. 

No soul housed on a city street 
Its gladdest song outpours; 

Tt sings where life is free and sweet, 
And real ; it sings — outdoors. 



THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST. 115 

A guest whom we have learned to know 
Is from among us soon to go. 

Should his loss wring 
Our hearts with grief, while at our gates 
A younger, fairer guest awaits 

A welcoming? 

And yet one feels that he could brush 
From straining eyes — no, there's no such 

Thing as a tear. 
A tear? Pshaw! we're too much in love 
With life now at the dawning of 

Another year. 

Upon the threshold of a new 

And unknown year we stand. How few 

Of all earth's men 
Will mourn when death takes Nineteen-nine ! 
How many, though, will dine and wine 

Young Nineteen- ten ! 



SPRING. 

Old Earth as she now whirls through space 
Assumes a new beauty and grace : 

She feels a strange joy 

Taking this maiden coy 
Again in her loving embrace. 

And we who inhabit the sphere, 
We who for awhile abide here, 

As the Southland's soft breeze 

Stirs the fresh-leafing trees, 
Find life O, so happy and dear ! 



116 SPRINGTIME. 

Nature is kind, the trees are blossoming 
And man rejoices. Yes, benignant spring 
Has come again; lier kindly smile now beams 
Upon the land, and O ! her presence seems 
Dearer than e'er before : all things appear 
So beautiful and life is foimd so dear. 
One's heart this season knows the rapture of 
A new-born ecstasy. Ah, Heaven's love 
These bright, sweet days is shown everywhere: 
The hills are green and fragrant is the air 
With scents of early flowers. Once more earth 
Her loveliest raiment dons, and joy and mirth. 
As caroled by the songbirds in their lays, 
Mark the fleet hours of the gracious days. 



A NEW WORLD. 

Ere in my life you came 

I found it dull and tame : 
I knew not then the beauty of this earth. 

How great a change is wrought! 

Now, happily, I'm taught 
Life's meaning, its diviner scope and worth. 

Love has aroused my mind 

And heart and soul. I find 
The world transformed, and in the bright sunshine 

Life is more fair, more sweet, 

More dear, and more complete 
Than 'twas in days when love's wealth was not mine. 



SPRING'S REIGN. 117 

Benignant Nature's brightest smiles 

Are beaming now in these 
Dear days on continents and isles, 

And on earth's sparkling seas. 

Spring has returned, and our hearts beat 

With highest hopes as we 
Stand on the threshold of Life's sweet. 

Strange, and deep mystery. 

She lavishes her richest gifts 

Again among us here ; 
Our wearied spirits she uplifts. 

Life now is O ! so dear. 

From far-off fields where daisies sway 

Now in the balmy breeze 
Sweet scents sometimes so strangely stray 

In our town's boundaries. 

Yes, life is sweet in fair Spring's reign, 

And O ! it would be wrong 
For any soul then to refrain 

From bursting forth in song. 

The sternest of us may at times 

Unbend. What if we fling 
Our cares away, and jot down rhymes! 

There's some excuse — in spring. 



118 A SPRING DAY. 

That day in fair April, which we 
Spent long, long ago by the sea, 

I often recall ; 

'Twas dearer than all 
Other days — that midspring day to me. 

I love to recall it, I do. 

The ocean was never more blue 

And sparkling than when 

We looked on it then. 
In the heart of that spring we once knew, 



A BROKEN RESOLUTION. 

I registered a vow on New Year's day 

To give up rhyming in four months ; therefore 

I must, as it is now the first of May, 
Bid farewell to the Muse forevermore. 

Yet when birds sing as they are doing now. 
When days are long and one has lots of time, 

When sweet and balmy breezes waft one's brow, 
'Tis hard to check a tendency to rhyme. 

However, when the Summer has gone by, 
When Autmnn with her rich and ruddy hues 

Bedecks the forests and the fields, ah ! I 

Shall then — perhaps — say farewell to the Muse. 

But now — no, no. I cannot say farewell 
When lilacs and when roses are in bloom ; 

Yet when the golden-rods nod in the dell 

To part from her may fill my soul with gloom. 

I'll wait until a few more months elapse. 

I'll bid, albeit in a trembling tone. 
Farewell in winter; yet I might (perhaps) 

Be loath to shiver in the cold — alone. 



MAYBELLE. 119 

She loves me ; she can't help it. One might be 

Apt to imagine, unless I explain, 
That these expressions smack of vanity. 

Well, possibly I may be somewhat vain. 

But I am positive she loves me, though : 
She says so, and she's truthful as the day. 

Why can't she help it? Well, true love, you know, 
Begets love ; hence my love she must repay. 

Yes, darling little three-year old Maybelle 
Surely returns her father's loving ; why 

He — that is, I love more than words can tell 
My precious one — the apple of my eye. 



BESIDE THE SEA. 

I romped with Maud upon the shore — 
With Maud, who has thus far lived four 
Years in the world; I've lived three score. 

But this fair morning when 
With that most joyous juvenile, 
Time waived, with an indulgent smile, 
His claim on me, and I the while 

Became a boy again. 

Yes, this fair morning I was one 
Of two glad children, O ! what fun 
We both had playing in the sun. 

Now sunk to rest. And Maud 
Rests too, she sleeps : beside the sea 
I walk alone. Ah, rest to me 
Shall come ere long. How suddenly 

Were all my years restored ! 



120 A MEMORY. 

A tuneful group they were — those few 
Itinerant musicians who 

Played in the bright sunshine: 
I paused and listened to the band, 
When suddenly I felt a hand 

Press gently that of mine. 

A small tot of the neighborhood 

Had from his plapnates strayed and stood 

Beside me on the street : 
I clasped the little hand that he 
Extended, and together we 

Enjoyed the music's treat. 

:j! Hs * * * * 

To-night upon the pier, among 
A merry crowd, I sit : a song 

Is sung, and lo ! I see 
A city street, a child demure, 
Whose bright face beams with sweet and pure 

And trusting smiles on me. 

The vision fades. I'm sad. Yet why 
Should I, where revelry runs high 

As it does here, be not 
Gay like the rest? But no. the song 
Just heard has moved me — made me long 

To see again that tot. 



A DAY RECALLED. 121 

I walked one well remembered day 

Beside the sea, and saw 
A very little child at play 

Alone upon the shore. 

She smiled as, pausing in my walk, 

I greeted her, and we 
Soon were engaged in earnest talk 

There by the mighty sea. 

She seemed to like me, and she had 

Much to relate: I sat 
Down by her on the sand, most glad 

To have with her a chat. 



Dear child, I often think of you. 

Ah yes ! though many a year 
Has passed since your words brought into 

My empty life some cheer. 

I love the ocean, yet I ne'er 

Found by its waters more 
Of joy than on the day that fair, 

Bright, trusting child I saw. 



122 TO DOROTHY. 

" Sunbeam of Summer ! oh ! what is like thee ? 
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea." 

— Mrs. Hemans. 

Do you remember, Dorothy, 

Those bright days in July 
When we met by the peaceful sea. 

And played there — you and I? 

Those playful hours are, I find, 

A pleasure to recall ; 
a^lthough they may from your young mind 

Have faded, one and all. 

I very often think about 

The man we formed of sand ; 

Before that breaker knocked him out 
He certainly looked grand. 

You made his body and his face. 

His arms and legs likewise ; 
I shaped his hat and helped to place 

His ears on and his eyes. 

And then the " auto ", Dorothy, 
That would not quite hold two ; 

There was not room enough for me. 
It only seated you. 

Ovir names upon the sand also — 

My! didn't they look fine? 
I've not forgotten yours, although 

You have forgotten mine. 



CHILDHOOD. 123 

And I think, too, of our store — 

Our little store. I judge 
No other dealers on the shore 

Sold such nice cake and fudge. 

Now 'neath bleak winter's sullen skies 
I The angry waters swirl 
About that coast, but in your eyes 
Fair summer bides, dear girl. 

May you forever, joyous child, 

Find life as sweet and dear 
As were those sunny hours whiled 

Away near the old pier. 



So I — a lonely man — think of 

That little girl with whom 
I played, and whose smiles, bright with love, 

Dispelled awhile my gloom. 



CHILDHOOD. 

The days — O the days of childhood! 
How blessed and happy and good 

They are ! Mine were so ; 

And yet — yet, I know, 
I would not relive them, if I could. 



124 IN A CITY SQUARE. 

I like to sit here in this square 

And watch the happy children play ; 

I was as free from grief and care, 
Some fifty years ago, as they. 

Yet I am not unhappy now. 

Who can be on a day in spring? 
In this sweet air my soul somehow 

Is strangely stirred, and I must sing. 

A child speeds with unconscious grace 
On roller skates 'round the flag staff ; 

I note her bright and winsome face, 
I hear the music of her laugh. 



'■a'- 



I notice how her straying curls 

Dance in the sunshine when she shakes 

Her head the whole she gayly whirls 
Around the circle on her .skates. 

She leaves off skating soon and drops 

Her " rollers " for a piece of chalk, 
With which she draws some squares and hops 

Towards one marked " Home " there on the walk. 

Home ! That must be a happy one 

She trips to now beside her nurse. 
The afternoon is almost done. 

I— well, I'll stop this rambling verse. 

Dear child, fair child, you mind me of 

A little one as dear and fair, 
Who plays — yes, plays somewhere above, 

Not here, not here — now — in this square. 



RITTENHOUSE SQUARE. 125 

For me to occupy a seat 

Here in this square perhaps is wrong. 
I live just north of Market street, 

And ought to stay where I belong. 

Yet may not those who live above 

A certain street come here and sing? 

One's heart must sing of life and love 
When basking in the smiles of Spring. 

Beside me sits a little boy, 

In his hands is a fuzzy bear ; 
Both bear and boy seem to enjoy 

The spring-day's outing in the square. 

A train of choo-choo cars goes by. 

Where bound ? The tot who hauls it knows ; 
Ask him ; 'tis he can tell, not I. 

To Happyland I should suppose. 

The tumult now is at its height. 

But is it not a pleasant noise? 
They shriek and shout in pure delight — 

These merry-hearted girls and boys. 

They play " hop-Scotch ", and tag, and ball; 

The girls jump ropes ; I hear some cry 
For " salt and pepper ", others call 

For " apples ", " peaches ", and for " pie ". 

Now a precocious artist takes 

A crayon in his chubby hand. 
And on the asphalt pathway makes 

Some drawings hard to understand. 

So who can blame me if on clear. 

Bright afternoons I sit sometimes 
On a bench in this playground here. 

Inditing a few trivial rhymes? 



126 MINOR MISHAPS. 

There was a small boy with a gun, 
He wanted some innocent fun ; 

A " friend " loaded for him 

That gun to the brim. 
Pa and Ma are now seeking their son. 

His young sister one afternoon, 
While flying a purple balloon, 

Was carried away. 

Her nurse thinks she may 
Be blown back to her parents next June. 

O say ! have you found anywhere 
On the earth, or perhaps in the air, 

Two cute kids? When last seen 

They were playing, I ween. 
With a gun and balloon, in the square. 

The boy's elder sister's left eye 
Was cut by a fall ; that is why 

She now lies in a swoon. 

But she'll come to real soon. 
Probably by the first of July. 

She has had, to be sure, a close call. 
Being very near killed by her fall. 

But she still is alive. 

And perhaps she'll revive. 
She is stunned, merely stunned — that is all. 

The fond parents of these three bright 
Little dears, who are now out of sight. 
Seem real worried. The nurse 
Says that things could be worse. 
Does this thought cheer the parents? Not quite. 

It's true, there is one little dear 
Whose body, at least, is still here ; 

But her senses are fled, 

And her mother, 'tis said. 
Feels almost like shedding a tear. 



RICHES. 127 

I am possessed of untold wealth, 
I'm rich beyond all dreams of greed; 
A wife, two children, strength and health 
Are mine. What more does a man need? 

Up-town I have a little home 

Where we four live ; I like to hear 
The children shout " Papa has come ", 

W'hen I at eve my home draw near. 

Those little darling ones they watch 

Each evening at the corner of 
The street for me, then we three march 

Towards home and Mother whom we love. 

Yes, I indeed have imtold wealth: 

A home just large enough for four, 
A wife, two children, strength and health. 

Riches ! No man on earth has more. 



LIFE'S HOURS. 

1 danced one day upon the lea — 

Danced, yes, and shouted from sheer joy; 

I laughed aloud ; I was, ah me, 
At that time just a boy — a boy ! 

How carelessly I whiled away 

Life's hours once ! I now employ 

Them usefully ; I do not play, 

Nor dance, nor laugh. I'm now no boy. 



128 A LITTLE CRITIC. 

{Too panegyrical perhaps, but wholly honest in her spontaneous 
encomiastic expressions.) 

None seems to think that I, 

In poetry's sphere, 
Will ever rank as high 

As Bill Shakespeare. 

But stay ! — there's one who tells 

Me oftentimes 
That my verse far excels 

Bill Shakespeare's rhymes. 

This critic, aged five years, ^ 

Has not a doubt 
My lines surpass Shakespeare's, 

Which I oft spout. 

What ! tell in rhyme a new 

Story, my dear? 
Well, better this than to 

Murder Shakespeare. 

Once, then, upon a time 

A great king had 
A — " Did that king write rhyme 

Like you do, Dad ? " 

Don't interrupt ; wait till 

I'm through, then I 
To all your questions will 

Gladly reply. 

And so some fairy tales 

I improvise, 
Which my hearer ne'er fails 

To criticise. 

She says now I " beat Bill ", 

But I'm inclined 
To think my critic will 

Soon change her mind. 

She'll learn the poorness of 

Dad's verse, but will 
Ne'er doubt that he can love 

As well as Bill. 



OUR OUTING. 129 

Come, Nell, your hand ; 

Now let us skip 
Across the sand ; 

Look out, don't slip. 

O my ! what fun ! 

Don't budge, be brave ; 
Let's stand — run, run ! 

Here comes a wave ! 

How sportive are 

These waves that thus 
Roll up so far 

To play \vith us. 

They laugh, and so 

Do we when they 
Upon us throw 

The sparkling spray. 

We like, we do. 

This great big sea; 
And I like you, 

And you like me. 

And the cea likes 

Us both to-day ; 
At least it strikes 

Me, Nell, that way. 



CHUMS. 



The morning appears most 

Propitious for 
A jaunt along the coast 

Of Jersey's shore. 

So hurry, Nell, and get 
Your hat ; we ought 

To ride to the Inlet, 
Or else Longport. 



130 CHUMS. 



Ah ! you prefer Young's Pier. 

I shan't oppose 
The motion. It is clear 

What you say goes. 

" The Pier " — yes, here we are ! 
Nell knows what's best. 
Let's walk out to the far 
End, then — let's rest. 

Really, you've chosen well ; 

I like to be 
Away out here with Nell, 

And with the sea. 

Away out here — out here 

Above the blue. 
Deep sea, and 'neath the clear 

Heavens — with you. 

There is no joy more dear — 
None more profound 

Than simply sitting here, 
Looking around. 

* * ♦ >f^ * 

What fun we two chums had 

That summer we — 
Nellie and I her Dad — 

Spent by the sea. 

Those daily rambles by 

The deep with such 
A merry comrade I 

Enjoyed so much. 

Still on old Jersey's shore 

Beats the wild sea. 
I — well, I'm thankful for 

A memory. 

In dreams out on the pier. 

Over the blue 
Sea, Nell, and 'neath the clear 

Skies, I'm with you. 



THE LESSON. 131 

I watched her building by the sea, 

And lent my aid. 
What skill in architecture we 

Toilers displayed ! 

When in the tunnel 'neath the fort 

We two clasped hands, 
I knew I had a friend long sought 

Found on the sands. 

A little friend — one who knew, though, 

Enough of this 
Strange world to have learned love is O ! 

Life's greatest bliss. 

I who should, doubtless, know more of 

The world than she, 
Had found, alas ! that love — yes, love — 

Was grief to me. 

But she — this child — is wiser than 

Am I, therefore 
She may teach me — a lonely man — 

Her brighter lore. 

New truths I fain would learn. Time's lapse 

Fresh knowledge brings ; 
And I am not too old, perhaps, 

To learn some things. 

So teach me, teach me, little one, 

Here on this shore 
New truths. I would, ere life is done, 

Of love know more. 



132 HAPPINESS. 

Sometimes I know an ecstasy 

Unspeakable : a thought 
Sweeps o'er my mind, and O ! to me 

A glimpse of heaven is brought. 

Night flees before the morning fair 
Now brightening the east ; 

And I shall taste the pleasures rare 
Provided at Life's feast. 

On earth Love reigns : upon our small 
Round world the sun doth shine : 

Cares disappear, and soon shall all 
Hope's promised joys be mine. 



SILENT SPEECH. 

Words are so weak, and why 

Employ them now in my 
Revealment of that longing in my breast? 

O ! let my eyes convey 

That which no tongue can say, 
And yours, responding, grant my soul's request. 

Think not that I shall fail 

To read aright the tale 
Told me by eyes as eloquent as yours ; 

In their deep depths I see 

Two lives that are to be 
Blest with a love that through all time endures. 



SOME DAY. 133 

Some day I'll meet my love, 

Unknown as yet. Ah yes ! 
Softly Hope tells me of 

A coming happiness. 

Now, though the world is drear, 

Not without cause I sing: 
A whisper in the ear 

Prevents my sorrowing. 

On Hope's sweet promise I 

Rely; I tread life's way 
Convinced that love in my 

Heart's core will bloom — some day. 



AWAITING HER COMING. 

There may be in the world somewhere 
A woman — one towards whom my heart 

Shall turn : a woman who will share 
My lot until death do us part. 

A woman — can Fate mean it? — who 
Will love me. Love me ! Ah ! if I 

Do meet her, I shall love her true : 
Yes, love her, love her till I die. 

My dearer, sweeter life — my love. 

My truer self I long to see. 
Sometime she'll hear the calling of 

My heart, my heart, and come to me ! 



134 THE EARTH. 

Swiftly the Earth revolves in space, 
Unto her goal she speeds ; 

Some day she shall have run her race 
And gained the rest she needs. 

Nearer each fleeting moment she, 
Now on her star-lit way, 

Approaches, unaffrighted, the 
Predestined final day. 

O ! she is brave and she is wise. 
Rushing thus towards her doom, 

Cheerily now while in the skies 
Hope's star doth brightly loom. 



A DEATHLESS SONG. 

Our earth was greeted by a song 
That morn she took her place 

Amid the stars, to roll along 

Her destined course through space. 

Love was the inspiration of 
Those stellar-minstrels then : 

Their deathless song of joyous love 
Now thrills the souls of men. 



A CHEERING THOUGHT. 135 

Should I despair because fate seems 

Unkind? No, why display 
Such weakness when my fondest dreams 

Are to come true some day? 

Nay, I shall not lose faith : I'll shed 

No tears: for is not life 
A thing to prize, though clouds o'erhead 

Portend more storms and strife? 

One thought — the thought that she shall be 

Restored to me some day 
Cheers me ; although from my heart she 

Has never strayed away. 



FOREORDAINED. 

Before the bright stars filled 

The vaulted sky Fate willed 
That we should live and meet and love in this 

Blest golden age : yes, it 

Was in Fate's life-book writ 
That we, dear one, should know love's fullest bliss. 

Yes, ere the stars were flung 

In space — ere they had sung 
Their greeting to the earth, Fate, who controls 

Our lives, decreed that we 

Should meet and love and be 
The happiest of all created souls. 



136 HEAVEN'S GIFT. 

Surely of love I ne'er knew aught 

Until this maid I saw ; 
Since that blest day I have been taught 

A truth unknown before. 

Never has this world seemed so fair; 

New and strange joys I know; 
Along a pathway, strewn with rare 

Primroses, I now go. 

Our earth is glorified when Love 
Reigneth thereon. O ! then 

Cherish that gift which heaven above 
Hath vouchsafed unto men. 



A WOMAN'S HEART. 

There's that which kingly wealth can not 

Obtain — I'm speaking of 
A woman's heart. How blest the lot 

Of him who wins such love ! 

Gold may secure a woman's hand, 
While Love, in tears, looks on ; 

But hearts yield not to wealth's command; 
True hearts are not thus won. 

Shapely and fair the hand may be 

That itches for man's gold, 
But false to womanhood is she 

Who may be bought and sold. 

Love ! 'Tis the holiest sentiment 

Within the hixman breast : 
It is a gift by Heaven sent — 

The nobliest and best. 



SUMMER. 137 

Summer has come, the season of 

Unbounded joy is here: 
Sweet, idle days when one may love 

And woo a maiden dear. 

Now in the lane the blithe birds sing, 

New beauties nature shows ; 
And I may go a-rambling 

Perhaps with — her, who knows? 

O ! she is kind, as her bright smile 

Right pleasingly attests. 
Can I be else than happy while 

Her smile upon me rests? 



WHERE LOVE BIDES NOT, ANTOINETTE. 

Where love bides not O ! ne'er let 

Me sojourn ; life, Antoinette, 
Must in places where is heard no love's glad song 

Be a woeful tragedy. 

It would kill the soul in me 
Were you, Antoinette, and love to leave me long. 

He, my Antoinette, who ne'er 
Was entangled in love's snare, 

He whom love denies his favors, he who knows 
Not that rare and soulful bliss 
Which steals o'er one in a kiss 

Taken from alluring lips beneath the rose : 

He who unto wisdom's store 

Never added love's sweet lore 
Has lived all his days in vain, for he has not 

Tasted life's best draught as yet. 

Where love bides not, Antoinette, 
O, how bitter and how sad must be one's lot ! 



138 THE VOICE I'LL NEVER HEAR AGAIN. 

Sad and sweet was the song that she 

Used to sing. Ah ! nevermore 
Shall that song stir the soul in me 

As when 'twas sung by her of yore. 

Now at the play I occupy 

Near the stage my accustomed seat ; 

Again I hear that song, but my 

Pulse throbs with no enquickened beat. 

Other singers — world famous — may 
Regale a crowd with song, but I 

Can ne'er again in my life's day 

Hear the voice loved in days gone by. 



SOMETIME. 

Sometime, love, in a golden clime, 

Where roses bloom the whole year through, 
Where skies are of the deepest blue. 

We'll meet, we two — sometime, sometime. 

What joy in that fair clime we'll find ! 

What happiness we two shall share, 

Our eager spirits mingling there. 
And your dear form in my arms twined ! 

How beautiful and how sublime ! 

How wondrous strange and sweet will be 
Life when we meet and love, as we 

Will do, dearheart, — sometime, sometime. 



THE LAKE. 139 

She moves among my visions of the lake." — Tennyson. 

Somewhere there is a little lake 

Upon whose surface may be seen 
Sweet lily-bells afloat: they take 

A pride in being there, I ween. 

Nestling among the joyous hills, 

Near nature's heart, this calm lake lies. 

Ah, there one hears the whip-poor-wills 
Pour forth their notes when daylight dies. 

One time the Spirit of the place, 

Radiantly fair, appeared to me. 
Could I again see her dear face, 

How blest and happy I would be. 



LOVE. 



The greatest and most precious of 
All things in our world is love : 

How cheaply, though, in these 
Too sordid days 'tis held. The stake 
Is gold, not love: and hearts may break 

While storm-tossed on life's seas. 

Yet love is love, and love has been 

The world's best wealth wherewith to win 

Joy worthiest to gain. 
One who has loved and whose love met, 
Alas ! with no return, has yet 

Not lived this life in vain. 



140 A FISHER MAIDEN. 

She threw her line into the lake : 
Unnoticed by the angler, I 

Stood near ; the fish seemed not to take 
At all to her, I wondered why. 

Now had I been a fish that day 

No time would have been lost before 

A sole would have gasped life away 
Prone at her feet there on the shore. 

Often do I, O maiden fair, 

Recall how you with hook and line 

Caught not a fish, but, unaware, 

Had captured that fond heart of mine. 



A PREMEDITATED THEFT. 

When the stout arms of Morpheus enfold her, 
And she dreams of a fairer world than this. 

The favored guardian angels who behold her, 
Press on her smiling lips full many a kiss. 

Angels can do no wrong ; it might, however, 
Be not quite proper for us on this sphere 

To copy all their acts ; we must endeavor 
To be more circumspect — we mortals here. 

Yet I shall try, when next I catch her dozing 
Here on the porch, some quiet afternoon, 

To win a pair of gloves; that is supposing 

I get the chance, which I may — I trust — soon. 



CHRISTMAS TIME. 141 

Should I one of these days espy 

Under the mistletoe 
Some merry maid, ah ! then would I 

A kiss deem apropos. 

Now of the season's merriest girls 

North, South, or East or West, 
A certain one with long, dark curls, 

Perhaps I like the best. 

O ! she's the girl whose lips are so 

Ripe for love's honeyed sips. 
Can I not 'neath the mistletoe 

Have access to those lips? 



FAINT HEART. 

If it should happen that I find her under 
A sprig of mistletoe on Christmas Day, 

I'll do that which need cause no special wonder ; 
That is, I'll — no, I hardly like to say. 

Should I discover, though, that combination — 
The girl and mistletoe — I am afraid 

I'd lack the courage in the situation 
To duly and to Yule-ly greet the maid. 



142 THE ENIGMA OF LIFE. 

Strange (is it not?) our brief existence here. 

Unsolved as yet is life's deep mystery. 
Soon we'll be summoned hence. Yet should we fear 

A visitation we all know must be? 

No one can death's impending stroke evade : 
Nearer to all the Reaper draws each day : 

And some of us may in a grave be laid 
Perchance ere many hours pass away. 

Ought we not then, while life is ours, be 
Regardful of those duties that are so 

Clear and so urgent? O, if heeded, we 
Hereafter may that life in heaven know. 



AMID THE GLOOM. 

If sometimes 'mid the gloom appears 

A fair face, whose rare charm 
I've not forgotten through the years, 

Ah, is there aught of harm 
Re-living for a while in thought 

Those dear, dead days when she — 
My friend — was kind, when her smiles brought 

Such happiness to me? 
Those gracious days ! Ah me, it were 

Unwise now to give way 
To grief : yet, should I dream of her, 

Chide not my weakness, pray. 



VAIN REGRETS. 143 

" O, stars that o'er me shine, 1 pine, I pine, I piue. 
With hopeless fancies hidden in an ever-hungering breast ! " 

— Owen Meredith. 

Ruth is eighteen and I 

Am forty-five: a sigh 
Escapes me as I sadly meditate 

On this disparity 

In ages, for I see 
Therein the very irony of fate. 

If I were younger, or 

If Ruth, whom I adore, 
Were only some years older I'd forsake 

At once my bachelorhood — 

That is if fair Ruth would 
But smile on the proposal I would make. 

I've met my love too late, 

And O, my grief is great. 
But were I twenty-one would Ruth's dear eyes 

Beam with love's light on me? 

No, no, it might not be. 
Regrets, vain though they are, will yet arise. 



WHEN TIME IS DEAD. 

When ages shall have fled, 

When Time — old Time — is dead. 
And earth on which he stalked has passed away, 

Then, dear one, on some far 

Off happy, glimmering star 
We two shall live forever — and a day. 



144 MEDITATIONS OF A BOOKKEEPER. 

The day is done, I close my books ; stern duty 
Calls for no work upon their leaves to-night. 

I'm free to think awhile of one whose beauty 

And youthful charms were once my soul's delight. 

Night is the proper time for meditation ; 

Sweet thoughts now come to me, grim business yields 
To sentiment, and in imagination 

I join Alicia on Elysian fields. 

Alicia! Ah, in my heart's recesses 

Still glows the love thy smiles enkindled there 

In the old days ; that spark divine still blesses 
My life, and makes the world for me still fair. 

Down an enchanted lane in simuner weather 

We stroll again ; we cull again the fair 
Hedge flowerets, and while we sit together 

I twine again the wild blooms in thy hair. 

Thy face, Alicia, with glad smiles is lighted ; 

I take thy hand in mine ; 'tis not withdrawal ; 
I tell my story, and our troth is plighted 

There in that lane upon a summer morn. 

O foolish dreams ! Vain musings ! Unbefitting 
One in my place. Why in the dull brain of 

An obscure bookkeeper should there come flitting 

Thoughts that have aught to do with youth and love? 

Soon shall my day — my life's day — have an ending ; 

Soon I shall close my books, ne'er to resume 
The world's work on their leaves ; soon I'll be spending 

A long vacation in the peaceful tomb. 



HER SONG. 145 

She sings an olden song, and lo ! it bringeth 
More comfort to my heart than e'er before. 

I gain, the while this happy maiden singeth, 
An ampler knowledge of love's wondrous lore. 

She sings an olden song. The birds that play in 
The leafy woods are no more tuneful. I 

Know well she sings as sweetly as do they in 
Their gladsome haunts beneath a summer sky. 

She sings an olden song, and I acquire 

A larger faith in Hope's fair words. Ah, yes! 

My life, as Hope now hints, may be raised higher 
To an estate whose wealth is — Happiness. 



AMID THE CROWD. 

Amid the crowd that sauntered by 
Was a fair girl whose features wore 

A lovelier smile than ever I 
Had seen upon a face before. 

'Twas but a passing glimpse I had 

Of her, yet in my memory 
She lives ; her smile through all the sad 

Years I have known has oft cheered me. 



146 ALICE. 

I sing of Alice. Ah! a poet never 

Sang of a girl so radiant and so fair, 
So dainty, sweet and pretty, and so clever, 

So bright, vivacious, and so debonair. 

A girl who loves this life, yet loves it rightly: 

She knows that somewhere there's a world more dear : 

And so earth's trials do but touch her lightly, 
For Faith walks with her in the life lived here. 

A gentle girl — not weak, for she is daring 
As are all heroines, and this fair sprite 

Is firm as adamant in all things bearing 
On principles of justice, truth and right. 

O optimistic, love-compelling Alice ! 

Of one thing 1 am positively sure, 
And that is she will never harbor malice 

If it should happen that my rhymes are poor. 

Yet one, I take it, cannot fail completely. 

Inspired by this maid, and if my song 
Be not all that it should, I know she'll sweetly 

O'erlook its faults nor think I have done wrong. 

O ! 'tis not wrong to dream — to build a palace 

In one's imagination, placing there, 
In full and free possession, charming Alice, 

Sweet tenant of that castle in the air. 



WHEN ALICE SINGS. 147 

When Alice sings a glimpse of far-off places, 

Familiar once and dear in memory, 
I seem to catch : Ah yes ! and kindly faces 

From out the past appear again to me. 

Yes, when she sings life well is worth the living, 
For then to me its highest joys are brought : 

The sweets of love, the pleasure of forgiving 
Are chief among the things that I am taught. 

My soul expands, ambition's fire is lighted 

Once more within my breast. Hope hints of fame, 

And of a love which is to be requited. 
Of wealth, of power, station and a name. 

And thus into my life there comes a blessing ; 

For when fair Alice sings, Hope turns to me. 
And in a manner tender and caressing 

Speaks glowingly of days that are to be. 

If I rely on Hope's fair words and linger 
In a fool's heaven, held there by a song, 

My senses stirred, my heart thrilled by the singer, 
Should I be blamed? Ah, wherefore is the wrong? 

My paradise may be somewhat unstable — 

A thing of fancy soon to fade away ; 
Yet its delights seem real, and I am able • 

To fully know the meaning they convey. 



148 ENFORCED SILENCE. 

Poets oft sing in soft 

And impassioned strains of 

Woman, whose charms diffuse 
Among men faith and love. 

O ! I know one, and so 

Rare her charms are, ah yes ! 

Could they be told by me 

Then the world I would bless : 

Yea, I'd thrill it, and fill 
It with songs grander than 

Any yet that have swept 

O'er the heartchords of man : 

And into the deep blue 

Of earth's dome wondrous strains 
Would ascend till they blend 

With angelic refrains. 

But not mine that divine 
Gift possessed by the true 

Bard, whose art wins the heart 
Of the maid he doth woo. 

Unexpressed, though, Love's blest 
Song may gladden the mind : 

So alone in mine own 

Breast, unheard by mankind, 

Songs of her shall confer 
Richest blessings, and tend 

To uplift shades that drift 
O'er the life's way I wend. 



LOQUACITY. 149 

When one has no great thoughts to utter, 

Loquacity is very wrong ; 
But bards who write for bread and butter 

Cannot afford to keep still long. 

'Tis not, though, by versification 

That I my sustenance obtain; 
I'd die of lingering starvation 

If I essayed to write for gain. 

I do but dabble, only dabble 

In verse. L oft flee from the rude 
World's maddening and vulgar rabble 

To court the Muse in solitude. 

I manage to exist by " clerking " ; 

This sedentary calling looks 
Real easy ; still it's no snap working 

In a close office over books. 

However, a precarious living 

I gain therefrom ; my verse ne'er brought 
Me a — but I should not be giving 

These rhymes through which runs no great thought. 

Who wants to know of things concerning 

My puny cares? The world's great cry 
Is for uplifting, grand and burning 

Thoughts ; and such thoughts I can't supply ! 

But if I now am more loquacious 

Than my thoughts warrant, pray o'erlook 

My fault ; be patient, kind and gracious ; 
Do not in anger close this book. 

Deal not, O reader, too severely 

With one who, very timidly, 
(For love, not gain nor fame) strays merely 

In the safe shallows of rhyme's sea. 



150 



LOUISE. 



I am, Louise, 
No poet. Please 

Remember that : and yet 
I can't refuse 
To call the Muse 

When thou the task dost set. 



I 
All men, dear Lou, 

The wide world through 
Are swayed by love's strange power. 

O ! my fond soul 

It will control 
Until life's latest hour. 



When Beauty pleads 
Her slave must needs 

Do all — dare all to please : 
And though I fail 
Perhaps to scale 

Parnassian heights, Louise, 



'Twill ever be 

A joy to me, 
The while I journey o'er 

Life's course, to gaze 

Back on the days — 
The dear, dear days of yore. 



Yet I shall try. 
E'en though I die 

In the attempt. 'Twill be 
So sweet a thing, 
So comforting, 

To know I die — for thee. 



Soon — soon, O friend, 

This life will end : 
The grave, from which we shrink. 

Beyond doth yawn, 

And all are borne 
Each day more near its brink. 



But whyfore need 
I not succeed? 

My theme ought to inspire 
The coldest heart 
To feel a part 

Of Love's consuming fire. 



What if I know 
But grief and woe 

On my road to the tomb, 
The happy past 
At times may cast 

A light to clear the gloom ; 



Yes, even those 
Who stick to prose. 

Who never penned a rhyme, 
Might yet with ease 
Sing of Louise : 

The theme is so sublime. 



As in this bright 
Refulgent light 

I walk, life will to me 

Not seem all vain 
No, I shall gain 

Such joy in memory. 



WHEN WE MEET. 151 

In a far-away clime beneath bright 
Sunny skies, dear, our two spirits might 

Come together somehow ; 

Then shall I breathe love's vow, 
While our lips in love's first kiss unite. 

Without love life were incomplete. 
O friend, now unknown, how sweet 

And precious and dear 

Shall this life be here 
That day — that blest day when we meet. 



SWEET SUE. 

Before I saw sweet Sue 

I never, never knew 
What 'twas to love ; I, now turned forty, thought 

Myself immune, as 'twere: 

But O ! when I saw her — 
Saw Sue — I knew at once that I was caught. 

Caught in love's airy net. 

So deftly cast, I yet 
Do not complain; nay, I rejoice. Sue's smile 

Has made the world somehow 

So wondrous fair. Ah, now 
My life's day dawns and I must sing the while. 



152 A MODERN JULIET. 

She's gloriously beautiful — one who 

" Doth teach the torches to burn bright." Ah, were 
The bard, whose verse I cite, alive and knew 

This peerless girl, what lines he would send her ! 

Sonnets galore would Avon's poet write 

To her — my love. Again I quote Shakespeare: 

" Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night 
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear." 

O, Juliet, my Juliet : more dear 

To me than was Verona's maiden to 
Young Montague. Could I write as Shakespeare 

I'd charm the world by singing, love, of you. 

But no, ah ! no, sweet Juliet : you are 

More than the world to me : 'tis you alone 

Whom I would charm. Now unto Stratford's star 
I hitch my lumbering cart to reach Love's throne. 



THEY WHO LOVE. 

Doubtless a comely woman knows 
A joy in capturing men's hearts 
By the employment of her arts, 

Yet, if on no one she bestows 

A tribute of affection, she 

Is ignorant of love's best part ; 

She knows not what love means, her heart 

Is closed to life's sweet ecstasy. 



ODE TO A BEE. 153 

Why say of those whose love has failed 
Of a requital, that they do 
But love in vain? Ah, they are who 

Have love's sublimest summits scaled. 

They stand on love's sun-blazoned heights, 

A vantage gained by sacrifice. 

Who without suff'ring can be wise, 
Or know of life's supreme delights? 



ODE TO A BEE. 

Fain am I, little worker in 

A flowery world, to glean 
Life's sweets : I strive, like you, to win 

The favor of my queen. 

A daring honey-seeker 'round 

Her lips would hover long. 
Nor deem, where such rare sweets abound, 

That stealing were a wrong. 

But those exhaustless sweets are for 

No roving humble bee. 
And I have doubts if their rich store 

Is meant for humble me. 

However, I shall not despair. 

Nay, blithe and valiant bee, 
A-humming in the perfumed air. 

Your song inspires me. 



154 RUMORS. 

In the village it is bruited — 
The report is not refuted — 
That Miss Sally's lips are suited 

For — ^but no, I won't tell this ; 
Still it's true ; I can't help knowing. 
Have I not with Sal been going? 
O ! the rapture of bestowing, 

On such ruby lips a kiss ! 

No, I do not say I did so. 

Yet that night when Luna hid so 

Thoughtfully her face aniid so 

Beautiful a sylvan scene — 
A broad pasture, on whose clover 
Stood a maiden and her lover, 
The kind moon, that then passed over. 

Saw — well, no harm done, I ween. 

There's another rumor spreading, 
'Tis about a coming wedding. 
One that I need not be dreading, 

For Miss Sally I shall see 
At the church, participating 
In the blest connubial mating ; 
Sal is — I'll not keep her waiting — 

Going, yes, to marry me ! 

That dear night on the moon-lighted 
Clover field our troth was plighted. 
When one's love is found requited 

Life on earth becomes divine. 
Now I'm all the while a-singing; 
Time his flight is swiftly winging ; 
Soon the joy bells will be ringing; 

Soon sweet Sally will be mine ! 



NOT ALONE. 155 

A woman's love I never knew : 

That blessing from me is withheld : 
Alone, alone I am compelled 

This world of ours to pass through. 

Alone! No, not alone, for I 

Sometimes am conscious she is near : 
I feel her presence. O ! how dear 

Those moments are when she is by. 

No, not alone, the woman of 

My dreams is fair, and I shall in 

Another world find her and win, 
And hold forevermore her love. 

O ! I am happy knowing this — 

That sometime my soul will be stirred 
When our lips meet in love's deferred 

First, fondest and divinest kiss. 

The loves of this world — are they sure? 

They may, I question not, be sweet. 

But love won in a life so fleet. 
Can it, like mine beyond, endure? 



156 A VIOLET. 

I mind me, not without regrets, 
Of one who loved spring's violets — 
Her favorite flower ; she to-day 
Is far away — yes, far away. 

I have a flower, one once worn 
By her whose absence I now mourn: 
'Twas worn 'mong her stray curls awhile 
Ere given to me with a smile. 

Though perfumeless and faded, yet 
I hoard with care the violet : 
The violet that she once wore — 
She whom I'll see, ah ! nevermore ; 

The gentle girl who, one June day. 
Passed from this life away — away. 
Each spring the flowers, those that gave 
Her pleasure here, bloom on her grave. 

If tremulous sometimes should grow 
My speech, and moisture my eyes show, 
Would it denote a weakness? Should 
Grief be unworthy of manhood? 



UNFORGOTTEN. 157 

Do you ever think 

Of that time when we 
Watched the great sun sink 

Down into the sea? 

that exquisite 
Summer afternoon ! 

From your mind has it 
Passed away so soon ? 

We talked about love 

In a careless way 
At the closing of 

That fair August day. 

By the sea we sat, 

In the bright sunset. 
Our little chat 

You perhaps forget. 

1 have not somehow 
Quite forgotten all 

We then said ; I now 
That day's joys recall. 

Your loose auburn hair, 

Flecked with sunset's gold, 
And your smiles so rare 

I again behold. 

With you I again, 

By the ocean's side, 
Stroll as we did then 

In the eventide. 

Bluer than those skies. 

Deeper than that sea, 
Were your eyes — your eyes 

Beaming then on me ! 

I forget? Not through 

All eternity ; 
No, albeit you 

Have forgotten me. 



158 RHYME'S RECOMPENSE. 

Yes, I have met her; that is, long ago 

We — well, we knew each other (ah! those old 

Days she has quite forgotten, tell me, though, 
Who — who has won the heart I found so cold? 

Her heart, you say, is stolen and by one 

Who cares not for the spoil. Strange! Is this true? 
Pray by what necromancy was it done? 

Who hath thus robbed her? Tell me, tell me who. 

I? No, ah no. By what means could I wrest 
From her that treasure? Not by pen nor sword: 

In both crafts I'm unskilled. Nay, friend, you jest. 
No rhyme e'er gained one so great a reward. 

I cannot lay unto my soul, it seems, 

The flattering unction that my muse has brought 
To me the object of my youth's bright dreams. 

The woman whom in vanished days I sought. 

Surely, my friend, you do exaggerate. 

That verse of mine she chanced to read, although 
Vibrating with a passion strong and great. 

Were not sufficient to win her. Ah, no ! 

A bit of rhyme per se can never win 

A woman, but the intuition of 
A kindred soul may yet discover in 

One's lines the spirit of undying love. 

In this respect the vagrant rhyme I sent 

Forth on its little trip some time ago 
May have aroused a kindly sentiment 

Within her breast — for me. Would it were so ! 

This well might be : for she has found perchance 
Between those lines the secret I ne'er told — 

The sad, sad sweetness of an old romance 
Methought long buried in oblivion's mould. 



FAREWELL. 159 

A lustrous star, whose light 

On my life fell, 
Now vanishes from sight. 

Sweet star, farewell. 

The smiles I basked in for 

A brief, brief spell 
Shall haunt me evermore. 

Bright star, farewell. 

This erstwhile happy earth 

On which I dwell 
Now is of little worth. 

Dear star, farewell. 

Farewell, farewell : I must 

Not — dare not tell 
All I now feel. I just 

Shall sav — Farewell. 



PROXIMITY. 

Now sings that heart in me, 
For you, love, are so near ; 

Your blest proximity 
Inspires song, my dear. 

Proximity! I fear 

You think the word is wrong. 
True, you are far from me. 

And yet I sing a song ! 

O, love, our buoyant souls 
Float lightly o'er the great 

Sea that between us rolls, 
And we communicate. 



160 BEAUTY. 



Fondly our spirits meet 

Above the foamy mist. 
How sweet, love, O ! how sweet 

It is thus to keep tryst. 

Awake, aye, or asleep. 

Thought, dreams and memory 
Transport across the deep 

Your happy self to me. 



BEAUTY. 

Beauty has been compared by those 
Who rhyme and who philosophize 

To a frail flower — to a rose 

That soonest fades and soonest dies. 

The flowers perish ; yes, but they 
Blossom again. O ! can true worth 

And love and beauty pass away — 
Away forever from the earth? 

I hold that beauty never dies. 

Still I am no philosopher ; 
But in a book a pressed rose lies — 

A rose I once received from her. 

Though years have passed, that flower gives 
Forth a faint perfume in the room. 

Her life — the beauty of it lives, 

Though o'er her grave fair roses bloom. 



WOMAN'S CONSTANCY. 161 

Nothing have I to do 

With love, as I can see. 
No woman's likely to 

Adore and worship me. 

Yet men are wedded who 

Apparently are no 
More worthy — no more true 

Than I. Is this not so? 

We frequently hear of 

Drunken brute beasts who beat 
The wives they swore to love 

Before God's altar seat. 

Yet the love of these wives 

For their lords knows no change : 
Through all their wretched lives 

Their hearts are true. How strange ! 

O the devotion of 

A woman! No one can 
Fathom that wondrous love 

She showers on a man. 

Such love — Ah ! he who wins 

It while through life he goes 
Should, whate'er be his sins, 

Prize it until life's close. 

Were such a love to bless 

My life I feel that I 
Would cherish it, ah yes! 

Until the day I die. 

But I have nought to do 

With love, as I can see. 
No woman's likely to 

Adore and worship me. 



162 FILIAL LOVE. 

No mortal ever walked the surface of 

God's earth who did not hold his mother dear. 

But why boast of so tender, pure a love? 
Whyfore exploit it on the highways here? 

A shallow love oft makes the welkin ring 
With noisy vows ; a deep and true love drops 

Unnecessary tooting ; 'tis a thing 

Too sacred to be thundered from house tops. 

On " Mothers' Day," so-called, some men will wear 
Emblems while strolling on the public street ; 

But a true lover of a mother ne'er 

Will thus proclaim a love so dear and sweet. 
Written May 8, 1910. 



SHOW. 



One's affection for another — 

For, especially, a mother — 
Should not be advertised, I think, upon the avenue. 

Ostentatiously displaying 

Loves and gfriefs (mark what I'm saying) 
Is that which but the vulgar and most blatant of us do. 

Why should I, though, be decrying 

" Showiness " ? There's no denying, 
We Americans are given to vainglorious display. 

There's no love too sacred for us 

To exploit: last Sunday saw us 
Smirkingly disclosing this trait on the street — 'twas " Mothers' 
Day ". ' 



LONGINGS. 163 

(A slight tribute of respect to the memory of Thomas Moore.) 

I Stand on South Street Bridge ; I gaze into 
The murky Schuylkill with its sluggish flow. 
In the romantic days of long ago 
Old Erin's most melodious poet knew 
And loved this river, then so clear and blue, 
So sparkling in the glorious sunlight, so 
Silvery bright when the full moon would throw 
Her beams upon the playful ripples. True, 
Above these grimy wharves where barges lay. 

Freighted with coal, bricks, lumber, sand and stone, 
The stream glides 'tween green banks, yet I bemoan 
These restless days. I long to break away 
From Traffic's sordid reign. Where Peace holds sway 
There I would love to dwell, to dwell — alone. 



THE SEA. 

I've always wanted to sing of the sea, 
To pay, in my small way, a tribute to 
Its splendor, charm and power. And yet who 

Am I who dare to clothe in poesy 

The thoughts, regrets and hopes that come to me 
Now as I gaze out on the vast and blue 
Expanse of waters! Few there are, but few 

That may in thee confide. Ah ! I must be 

Silent, O ! ocean, as I thus stand here 

In thy o'erpowering presence. I find, though, 
A joy in this mute homage: yes ; I know 

An ecstasy as deep, a bliss as dear, 

As Byron found singing of thee on clear 
Moon-lighted nights in Venice, long ago. 



164 SHAKESPEARE. 

Once angels mingled with mankind, 'tis said. 

The legend may be based on facts, although 

The songs those angels sang when here below 
Were not recorded ; nor doth hist'ry shed 
Light on such things ; yet Love's song is not dead. 

There lived on earth three hundred years ago 

A heavenly singer, not an angel ; no, 
Merely a player ; one who earned his bread 
By acting on a rude-made stage before 

Motley and boisterous crowds. O peerless one ! 

No angel ever sang as you have done. 
"Your words, so happily recorded, draw 
The world's heart nearer God's. Ah ! who has more 

Uplifted us than this earth's gifted son? 



UNKNOWN AS YET. 

I love her with my soul's best love, and she 
Loves me as surely ; in our hearts there burns 
Love's steadfast flame ; her woman's nature yearns 

To mingle with mine own eternally. 

O ! I shall seek her when my soul is free 

Of earth's imprisoning clay. When dust returns 
To dust what truths the quickened spirit learns ! 

In this brief life on earth I may not be 

Successful in my search for her ; but O ! 
In that far brighter life hereafter I 
Shall by Love's guiding signal in the sky 

Sometime learn where she is. Love, I long so 

To meet you in yon heaven. We shall know 
Each other when we meet there by and by. 



WON. 165 

Just now my mind — as often seems the case — 
Is barren of all thoughts and all ideas. 
At this most untoward moment Grace appears; 

She holds aloft a rose ; smiles light her face. 

" This flower for a sonnet, sir." I pace 
Distractedly the room. Alas ! Fate jeers 
At me while with alternate hopes and fears 

I grope for rhymes — elusive rhymes. Ah! Grace, 

I sigh despairingly, I, goodness knows, 

Would wade through gore if thereby that divine 
Favor could be obtained. I must decline 

The prize. A sonnet I cannot compose, 

Not now — but hold ! Give me, give me the rose : 
The sonnet's written, and the flower's mine ! 



A SONNET. 

To write a sonnet seems an easy thing ; 

But fourteen lines required — that is all. 

A little matter like this should appall 
None who in stately verse would wish to sing 
Of hoary, rugged winter, gentle spring, 

Of glowing summer or of fruitful fall. 

The trouble is indeed in such a small 
Space to describe the seasons. Who can bring 
The heart's expression in the confines of 

A sonnet's bounds when love's the theme ! My soul 

Longs so for her. I would on Heaven's scroll 
Write her dear name, so that the saints above 
And men below might know whom I do love. 

And envy me while earth whirls towards her goal. 



166 WINTER. 

Love everywhere : love in her sparkling eyes 
And on her lips — her red lips whene'er she 
Laughs, smiles, or sings, or speaks. Love on the sea. 

On far-off isles, and in the morning skies. 

Love also in the chilly air that sighs. 

Through the dead branches of each leafless tree. 
Yes, love's an ever present joy to me 

Because of her ; it can't be otherwise. 

I know she lives ; I know that I again 
Shall see her. I can not be sad. I know 
Nature but sleeps now 'neath her quilt of snow. 

Winter is waning ; Spring is near. Ah ! when 

The early wild blooms burst forth in the glen 
I may see her whom my heart longs for so. 



LOVE'S DAY. 

T would that I could worthily reveal 
My love. I would that in a poem I 
Could but present the inner part of my 

Heart to her kindly gaze, so she might feel 

How great my love is, and how true and real. 
But some day — some dear day before I die, 
Some day it may be 'neath a summer sky. 

When flowers are in bloom, and when the peal 

Of happy bells are heard throughout the land, 
She'll realize as ne'er before the might 
Of love — of faithful, patient love. A light 

Will flash into her life: she'll understand; 

And in the dawning of a mom more grand 
We two shall meet : our spirits will unite. 



IN JERSEY. 167 

" Midnight, and love, and youth, and Italy ! 
Love in the land where love most lovely seems ! " 

— Owen Meredith. 

In Jersey, not, alas ! in Italy, 

My youth was spent ; hence it were foolish to 
Muse thus o'er Meredith's sweet summary 

Of life's best joys. Ah ! I have known so few. 

Besides, I " lag superfluous ", as 'twere. 

Upon life's stage. Youth comes not back again 

With its first love. I often think of her 
Whom I met — not in Italy, but " Spain ". 

When my heart and my arms were young and strong. 
And my mind clear, and my eyes keen, and when 

Life was most fair, I met my love among 

The sand hills back of dear old Wee-haw-ken. 

Ah ! Owen, love is sweet and love is true 
In every clime. Should love less lovely be 

In Wee-haw-ken than it is 'neath the blue 
And starry skies of far off Italy? 

Over in Jersey I once whiled away 

Some pleasant hours withal; may I not, then, 
Now, as the shadows close around me, say — 

"Midnight, and love, and youth," and Wee-haw-ken ! 



A LIFE'S HISTORY. 

I had a friend, 'twas long ago ; 

We parted, each went different ways. 
We were but friends — just friends, you know 

But yet I miss her — and those days ! 



168 WHY NEED ONE CARE? 

Tell me, Pegasus, have I won 

My spurs? Have I, that is to say, 

In writing verses ever done 

Aught to have gained the Poet's Bay? 

Possibly not. I am aware 

I'll never win a poet's crown ; 

And yet, and yet, I do not care ; 

I'm not depressed ; I'm not cast down. 

A glorious song now thrills my heart : 
The song is mine — not mine to share 

With men ; I lack the singer's art ; 
But then, but then, need I despair? 

Beyond the veil that now is flung 

'Tween these and brighter days elsewhere, 

Songs long unuttered may be sung. 
If silent now, why need one care? 



MY POEMS. 

My poems don't deserve to be 

Collected in a book : a friend 
Might read a few, but who is he 

Who will read all the rhymes I've penned? 

And yet the act of having dipped 

In verse was not unwarranted. 
True, some of my rhymes may be skipped; 

Yet others may, perhaps, be read. 

Perhaps, ah yes ! perhaps some may 
Give pleasure; a line which offends 

Need not be read ; I want all they 
Who get my book to be my friends. 



FRANKNESS. 169 

I once said that I did not care 

At all for glory, pomp and show. 
I said this with a careless air ; 

Said air was an assumed one though. 

The fact is (for why not be frank?) 

I yearn to be a potentate. 
I'm fond of pomp; I'd love to rank 

Among the eminent and great. 

But I do not suppose I will 

E'er occupy, like Mercury, 
^' Upon a heaven-kissing hill," 

A station. No, that's not for me. 



BY THE LAKE. 

Into the lake I threw 

The hook I fixed for Sue, 
But to her bait the fish .seemed not to take ; 

I, easier caught than they, 

Soon fell a willing prey 
To Susan's charms that morning by the lake. 

And, afterwards, when I 

Helped Susan scale those high 
And jagged rocks, methought if I should break 

My leg the pain would be 

Far less severe to me 
Than that caused by my heart's wound by the lake. 

Then O ! the task of love — 

The slow, slow winding of 
Sue's fishing tackle on the wooden stake 

Preparatory to 

Bidding that girl adieu 
Upon the grassy slope there by the lake. 



170 BY THE LAKE. 

I plucked, ere leaving Sue, 

A modest flower that grew 
Wild on the sunny hill. Did my heart quake 

With awe (perhaps it did) 

Whilst I the flower amid 
Her ringlets placed, that morning by the lake? 

The lilies sweet and pure 

I did not touch: I'm sure 
To have " swiped " the^n would have been a mistake. 

I really draw the line 

At a ten-dollar fine. 
O, I %vas good that morning by the lake. 

Yes, I transgressed no laws 

That happy morn, because 
I was, as I have said, too good to take 

A lily; though I would 

Have stolen, if I could, 
A thing more sweet from Sue's lips by the lake. 

Not ignorant am I 

Now of love's power. Why 
She, winsome little Sue, has but to shake 

Her curl-crowned head at me 

That I prepared might be 
To die for her, if need were, by the lake. 

I trust, however, Sue 

Will bid me live. I do 
Not care to die — just yet. For her sweet sake 

I'd rather live. Ah yes ! 

Life has been, I confess, 
So dear to me since that day by the lake. j. 



LITTLE SUE. 171 

Till yesterday I verily 

Knew naught of love, but who 
So densely ignorant can be 

On seeing little Sue? 

O ! fateful yesterday, when I 

In one brief instant grew 
So learned in love — a love taught by 

The smile of little Sue. 

Out in the morn of yesterday, 

Beneath its skies so blue, 
Heart-M'hole and free I went my way. 

Not knowing little Sue. 

No special danger did I fear 

When I at noon-time drew 
Anear the lake, so calm and clear, 

Where I met little Sue: 

But O ! my heart was stolen there. 

And now what shall I do? 
Well, I'll forgive and kiss the fair 

Young robber — little Sue. 

Forgiveness is divine, 'tis said : 

And I'm sure I'll not rue 
The act when sealed thus on the red, 

Red lips of little Sue. 



172 AUTUMN. 

Fair summer's reign is o'er, 

The lilies bloom no more: 
In the chill air to-day I saw a flake 

Of snow. The winter drear 

Is drawing now anear; 
I may no more see Susan by the lake. 

But dear — most dear to me 

Is now the memory 
Of one rare August mom. Time ne'er can take 

From out my heart the fair 

Sweet image, graven there, 
Of her I learned to love so by the lake. 



SUMMER DAYS. 

No crowd but goodly company 
Were Grace and Sue and I 

Those idle days, so sweet and free, 
Of a summer gone by. 

A summer gone, with Grace and Sue, 
From my dull life. Ah me ! 

The sweet, free, idle days I knew 
Are now a memory. 



THAT MORNING. 173 

Say, do you ever think of that 
Fair morn when by the lake we sat, 

We two, and fished ? We caught 
No fish, but O ! I never knew 
Before that fishing, dearest Sue, 

Was such delightful sport. 

In the fresh flower-perfumed air 
The happy summer birds sang their 

Choice songs, as though they wished 
To voice the joy all felt : most great 
Was mine found in that tete-a-tete 

With you what time we fished. 

Your hat was cast aside, and through 
Your free dark hair the soft breeze blew, 

Your curls it rumpled so. 
How perfect was that morning ! We 
Sat underneath an old elm tree 

And — well, we fished you know. 

Unnoticed on the ripples danced 

My pretty float. Your smiles entranced 

Me quite. In the depths of 
Your clear brown eyes, more than in the 
Clear lakelet's depths, I gazed. Ah me, 

How strange a thing is love! 

Aye ! strange, and dangerous, and sweet. 
I recked not, sitting at your feet 

That peaceful morn, of what 
Might be. Now I, afar from you, 
Am suffering from the wound, dear Sue, 

My heart that morning got. 



174 SUSANNA. 

The charmingest of girls, 

She of the raven curls, 
Has robbed me of my peace ; I cannot do 

My work, nor sleep, nor eat. 

And yet life seems so sweet — 
So strangely sweet these days because of Sue. 

She is from top to toe 

(If I may put it so) 
Of such surpassing loveliness that few 

On seeing her could be 

Unmoved ; so don't blame me 
For loving — aye, adoring little Sue. 

Oh, her bright eyes ! Perchance 

It was their roguish glance 
That first so startled my rapt soul ; and now 

Deep in her wavy hair, 

Like that bow she wears there, 
I find my heart is tangled fast somehow. 

The strictest anchorite 

Would worship her on sight. 
Her joyous laugh, her songs, her gentle voice, 

Her comeliness, her grace. 

Her smiles, her radiant face. 
Would teach all men to love and to rejoice. 

It is not strange therefore, 

While o'er my books I pore, 
That towards this girl my thoughts should sometimes stray. 

How blest my life would be 

If Fate were kind to me, 
And grant me my heart's dearest wish some day ! 



SUSANNA. 175 

Now in my quiet room, 

Amid the evening gloom, 
I sit alone, thinking of peerless Sue. 

I would that she were here 

So I could hold her dear 
Small hand, and press thereon a kiss or two. 

Yes, two or three — or more: 

Well, let me say a score. 
And on her glowing mouth, too, I would fain 

Bestow just one light kiss — 

But no, ah no, such bliss 
I upon earth, alas ! can never gain. 

Joys I must now forego 

I may hereafter know. 
Yes, in the sky when we as angels greet 

Each other, she may be 

Kindlier then to me, 
And 'mong the silent stars our lips will meet. 

And ! with what delight 

We two will wing our flight 
Through stellar space : and as I gaze into 

Sue's love-responding eyes 

I'll find in paradise 
A joy methinks that will be known to few. 

But no: not here nor in 

That world beyond I'll win 
The favor either of the girl or of 

The beauteous saint. It were 

Idle to dream of her. 
And of the stars, of kisses there — and love. 



176 A FALL. 

Some day — ah yes, some day 

I fear Susanna may 
Pass from my life : the partmg of the ways 

Will come. 'Tis Fate's decree. 

But oft in dreams I'll see 
The joyous spirit of these fleeting days. 



A FALL. 

To my late fall let me revert ; 

The injury I then sustained 
Seems serious ; my heart was hurt, 

Its mitral valve may have been strained. 

I shall endeavor to relate 

How 'twas I fell, but yet I fear 

That in my now delirious state 
I may not make myself quite clear. 

I — O ! but it is hard to tell 

About a fall the results of 
Which may prove fatal : I — er — fell 

Into — ^yes, I fell into love. 



TO NELLIE. 177 

On receiving from her the gift of a tea -cup. 

I have a treasure — one most rich : 
It is the little cup from which 

Sweet Nellie used to drink. 
I press my lips against its rim, 
And somehow now my eyes grow dim 

The while of her I think. 

For she, the friend we all held dear, 
Is far away: her season here 

So quickly passed, and I 
Now miss the working-days that were 
Made joyous by those smiles from her. 

For those lost days I sigh. 

Ah ! if in earlier years I had 

Met one so sweet — ^but no, these sad 

Regrets should not spring up. 
Life has of late seemed fair. Ah, yes ! 
I know its worth the while I press 

My lips to Nellie's cup. 



FRIENDS. 

Earth's beauty and its loveliness 
Are due to love ; on love depends 

Man's joy; blest are they who possess 
The pleasing art of making friends. 

I miss one loving friend I had 

Once when I trod those happier ways. 

I'm lonely now — lonely and sad, 
As I recall life's yesterdays. 



178 SHE SANG. 

She sang: I was not there to hear; 

But she sang well, so I am told : 
She filled the seed house full of cheer, 

And — I was left out in the cold ! 

Alone, that eve, 1 left the store ; 

I supped at Doolittle's cafe, 
While Alice, in her repertoire 

Of songs, o'er happier hearts held sway. 

I thought of her while I did eat; 

At times I sighed, I scarce knew why. 
An egg, two rolls, some soused pigs' feet 

I had, also a piece of pie. 

When I my meal had finished I 

Strolled down the quiet street : I knew 

Not of the feast of song near by, 

More rare than that I got from " Doo ". 

She sang. O ! wondrous is the art 
Of a true singer, whose songs may 

Cause the dead chords of one's sad heart 
To thrill as on a by-gone day. 

She sang. The charm and magic of 

Her fresh young voice made all cares flee, 

And in their stead joy, peace and love 
Reigned for the time triumphantly. 

There is not too much joy in this 

Work-a-day world, hence 'mong life's things 
That one cannot afford to miss 

Are those songs that fair Alice sings. 



SHE SANG. 179 



I wandered towards the Delaware : 
I gazed across at Jersey's shore, 

And when the shadows deepened there, 
Methought 'twas time to seek the store. 

I hurried back : upon the stairs 
I learned that our songbird had 

Regaled her friends with various airs. 
O ! then it was that I felt sad. 

Yes, then I knew grief's bitterest pang: 
I stagger now beneath the shock: 

For Alice — our Alice — sang- 

While I was lounging on the dock. 

Ah me ! perhaps the sweetest song 
That e'er was sung I failed to hear. 

I cannot, though it may be wrong, 
Help shedding now a silent tear. 

Would she have sung had I been there — 
This blithe and tuneful Loganite. 

I know not : still I shan't despair : 
I'll stay in-doors another night. 

And yet the years, as they pass by. 
May ne'er another song-night bring. 

'Tis sad indeed to think that I 
May never hear sweet Alice sing : 

Sweet Alice of these later days, 

(As sweet as Ben Bolt's friend of yore), 
Whose smiles and songs and pleasant ways 

Have won all hearts here in the store. 



180 NO LONGER YOUNG. 

I have been told 

That I am old, 

Which is quite true, yet I make bold 

To say, in brief, 
I find life dear. 
This is not queer, 
For I am not yet in the sere 

And yellow leaf. 

A young girl's smile 

Can yet beguile 

My fancy for a little while 

Here among seeds: 
For heart and mind, 
I haply find. 
Are still susceptible to kind 

And gracious deeds. 

I try to act 

With proper tact 

Despite my age — this is a fact. 

And 'tis no crime ■ 
For me to feel 
An interest real 
In some one's welfare, and reveal 

The same in rhyme. 

And so I send 

These lines I've penned 

To my — yes, let me call her friend ; 

For she, look you, 
Has friendly been 
To all within 
The store, and why may I not win 

Her friendship too? 



LOVE A BAR TO SUCCESS. 181 

I'm told that I should put my whole 

Heart, and my soul as well, into 
My work ; but ah ! both heart and soul 

Belong, I might say. Mama, to you. 

To be successful they say I 

Must throw all of myself into 
Trade's greedy maw ; but O ! Mame, my 

Heart — if not soul — belongs to you. 

So if I'm not successful, Mame, 

In my attempt to get into 
The firm, who is the one to blame ? 

My heart, please note, belongs to you. 



THE STIMULUS OF LOVE. 

If thus far I've not managed to 

Win much success in life's stern game. 

My failure really is not due 
To my affection for fair Mame. 

Love is no drag; it urges me 

On in the race. Ah ! my heart needs 

Love's stimulant. I yet shall be 
A partner in this House of Seeds. 

O ! I'll make good. Just watch me climb 
Up Fortune's ladder. Wealth and fame 

Are bound to come my way — in time. 
I cannot fail, for I love Mame ! 



PAST DREAMS RECALLED. 

This is a very recent production, having been written nearly two 
decades after the two preceding poems, of which it is a sequel. 

There could be no fulfillment of 

Such glorious dreams. Why, then, repine? 

I dreamt of wealth, fame, power, love. 
How foolish were those dreams of mine ! 

I am not yet a member of 

The firm. I have no wealth ; my name 

Appears not in Fame's Hall. E'en love 

Has passed me by — I've not won " Mame " ! 



182 THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. 

'Tis six o'clock and the day's work is ended : 
I hie me home : I dine : now heaven's bright 

Stars shine : night on the city hath descended. 
To Alice — yes, to Alice I shall write. 

She once said she liked poetry, consequently 

I may be pardoned if for this dear maid 
I try to rhyme. Come, Muse, deal with me gently: 

It is for Alice I now seek thy aid. 

I must confess, though, that I'm not a poet. 

I may, as might be thought, possess the art 
Of stringing rhymes : yet any one can go it 

Like this for her whose charms win every heart. 

Our Alice is, although she may not know it, 

A poetess herself : one clearly sees 
That this is so : her thoughtful face doth show it. 

Ah, she need write no careless rhymes like these. 

Her's is a larger art — the art of making 

Less gifted ones, on whose heartstrings she plays. 

Perform the poet's task: an undertaking 
That now an humble bookkeeper essays. 

And yet it is as easy as is rolling 

Off of a highly-polished log to write 
In verse when she's the theme ; there's no controlling 

My Pegasus then in his maddening flight. 

But I must curb my ardor. O ! I dare not 
Tell her my heart's fond secret or reveal 

My deepest thoughts ; this fair young girl would care not 
To have me tell all — all that I now feel. 



THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. 183 

O what a girl she is ! A stoic's heart could 
Not withstand her charms; nor can time heal 

A wound as deep as that which Cupid's dart would 
Cause the veriest anchorite to feel. 

Small wonder then that we who so well know her 
Should have this season here learned something of 

That master passion ; yet we dare not show her 
The depth of our overpowering love. 

Our adoration, although based on reason, 
(For who can help adoring one so dear?) 

Must not be told. The Belle of this fair season 
Moves in a grander world than our small sphere 

Yet while she's here — while, in a sense, she's ours 
We should be happy. Happy? Yes, for we 

Need never let the sunshine of these hours 
Be darkened by that parting soon to be. 

Ah ! I for one in present joys shall revel : 

I'll live not in the future nor the past, 
But now, yes, now ; my head I claim is level. 

No coming grief this hour's joy can blast. 

Ah Alice ! blithesome as the birds that wing their 
Flight in balmy springtime. I know well 

She is as happy as are they who sing their 
Carols in fair nature's wooded dell. 

She is so frank a girl ; though realizing 

Her more than ordinary gifts, she's free 
From all conceit : hence it is not surprising 

That we esteem a girl as true as she. 

A girl of humor. Humor is the rarest 

Gift found 'mong women so 'tis said. Our queen 

Has, I know well, the saving grace. Earth's fairest 
Girl has a wit as kindly as 'tis keen. 



184 THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. 

A girl whose heart, although it is so youthful, 
Has yet been tried and found as true as steel. 

In her (and O ! doubt not my being truthful) 
I have discovered my long sought ideal. 

A smart girl too, who won't be caught a-napping. 

Not she. O ! that siesta which one day 
She promised to — no, I may get a rapping 

Were I to give our " Sleeping ( ?) Beaute " away. 

But if that imsophisticated keeper 

Of books felt sore because of having been 

Jollied by our somnambulistic sleeper, 
Should he protest for being taken in ? 

No, no indeed ; nor is it my intention 
To speak of that which our girl perhaps 

Has now forgotten. Pray excuse its mention. 
Hereafter I shall not allude to " naps ". 



Yet if at any time I find her cradled 

In Morpheus' strong arms, I shall — mark this — 

Avenge myself. I trust I'll be enabled 
Soon to do so by means of — yes, a kiss. 

Those smiles of hers ! How well I know their power. 

(She smiles as does no other girl in town) 
She can, though, look most sternly ; one sad hour 

I languished in the shadow of her frown. 

Yes, this fair girl can frown ; but then not often 
Frowns rob her lips of their more kindly grace. 

I like her better when her features soften. 
Smiles so enhance the beauty of her face. 

I like her best of all when she is kindly. 

There is a sweetness even in her frown ; 
And I'm disposed to like this maiden blindly. 

But I don't like to be by her " turned down " : — 



THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. 185 

That is, without a cause ; and those who treasure 
That girl's good will would not in devious ways 

Do aught to bring a shadow of displeasure 

On her face wreathed with sunny smiles these days. 

Now I would not resort to an evasion, 

My duty's clear; I shall be frank and say 

That if on the alluded-to occasion 

I drove the smiles from her dear face away: 

Causing where smiles had been a frown to settle, 
My act was harmless and was really done 

In jestful mood ; yet by this girl of mettle 
I was " turned down " for my untimely fun. 

The penalty for that past act of sinning, 

Although excessive, yet was fully paid. 
I trust that nevermore those smiles so winning 

By act of mine will from her countenance fade. 

O ! our Alice, in my estimation, 

Is the best girl upon this favored sphere ; 

There probably (I speak with moderation) 
Never existed any one as dear. 

A girl of principle and of ambition. 

Of high ideals ; few are possessed of those 

Rich gifts with which she is endowed. Her mission 
In life is to spread joy where'er she goes. 

She heeds the call of conscience ; yes, she hearkens 
To that low voice, and blithely on her way 

Through life she goes. No shadow ever darkens 
The sunshine of love's most benignant sway. 

Yes, all is well ; and I do hope 'twill be so 

Until the close of her life's little day — 
Until there comes that final simimons we so 

Long for at times, and she is called away. 



186 THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. 

I've noted, not without profound emotion, 
The strength of that religious sentiment 

Which prompted her to spiritual devotion 
At noon-time on those solemn days of Lent. 

And so I say if saints live in these latter 
Days, I know one excelling in good deeds. 

I won't say who. Ah well, it doesn't matter : 
Best not to tell, though, in a " House of Seeds " 

Perfection's none too strong a word to utter 
When speaking of our peerless little queen. 

Ah me, how queerly now my heart doth flutter ! 
And O, my reeling brain ! What does it mean? 

Are those strange joys that have at times delighted 
My soul in rapturous dreams about to be 

All realized? Shall my love be requited? 
Is heaven to open now her gates for me ? 

No, no; not mine, not mine. Ah! never, never 
Shall peerless Alice shower on me her 

Wealth of affection. To live I'll endeavor 

Without the bliss that her love would confer. 

We can but worship, not possess the flower 
That blossoms in our midst a little while ; 

'Twill ere long brighten other fields, and our 
Lives shall no more be gladdened by her smile. 

But O ! when in her presence others tremble, 
As oft I've done, with love's strange ecstasy : 

When other friends in happier days assemble 
Around her, will — will she think then of me? 



JOY. 187 

Will she think then of the poor old bookkeeper 

Whose heart is crushed, and who, with blinding tears, 

Now writes these lines? Ah me! my soul shall seek her 
O'er lands and seas through all life's mystic years. 



The night is spent : a newer morn advances 
Upon the grim old town : I must to bed. 

Farewell to all these dreamy fond romances. 

Why should they fill an old bookkeeper's head? 

Yet if my body to a desk is fettered, 

My soul beyond the confines of a store 
Is free to fly ; if that soul thus is bettered, 

Pray let it in fair heaven's azure soar. 

But I must close. The thoughts that now are flitting 
Through my fagged brain can not be all expressed. 

Here at my desk I have too long been sitting. 
I'm weary, — weary. I should seek my rest. 

I must prepare for bed ; that countenance beaming 
With happy smiles in dreams will come to me. 

I'll leave off writing now and take to dreaming; 
Adieu, dear girl, — in dreams thy face I'll see. 



JOY. 



No sadness for me, my dear boy. 
By grieving we only destroy 

Life's chances for bliss. 

I'm hunting in this 
World for joy — not for gloom, but for joy. 



188 ON LIFE'S HIGHWAY. 

" We pass and speak one another, 
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence." 

— Longfellow, 

Might I not sometime meet on life's pathway 
A fellow traveller whom I shall find 
Extremely charming? Yes, perhaps I may. 
Should this fair traveller's smile, so true and kind. 
Illume my life and bring to it a bliss 
Exceeding all past joys, would it be wrong 
And an unpardonable act to kiss 
Lips for whose sweets my ardent soul might long ? 
Lips luscious as a pair I know would lure 
Even the sternest stoic. Ah! I'm sure 
No harm there is in kissing lips so pure. 



IF IN THE DAYS TO COME. 

May every blessing light, dear girl, on thee 
And mayest thou ne'er know a single care. 
Each friend of thine I trust may ever be 
Sincere as now : life then shall seem most fair. 
If in the happy days to come shouldst thou 
E'er think of those who have found thee so dear, 
\. thought O ! kindly give the one who now 
Loves thee as all do who have met thee here. 
Let me hope that thou wilt remember me : 
Encouraged by this hope, I know I'll be 
Not quite so sad when I am far from thee. 



MY IDEAL 189 

My ideal I have found — yes, 'mid the whirl 

And flurry of a busy day I saw 

Earth's loveliest and best and dearest girl : 

She smiled upon me in a crowded store. 

I recognize in her the vision of 

Entrancing day-dreams I at times have had : 

And in my overburdened heart a love, 

Lost for a while, returns, and O ! how glad 

Life seems. Again youth's joys are mine as I, 

Enraptured, gaze on her who into my 

Now love-enlightened life steals silently. 



A DARK-HAIRED DIVINITY. 

My thoughts throughout the day and dreams at night 

Are of the dark-haired beauty in that store. 

Earth ne'er was trodden by a fairer sprite : 

She is the queen I worship and adore. 

I am no longer free : my heart is now 

Enmeshed, as 'twere, in her luxuriant hair. 

And O ! my very life is hers somehow : 

Love such as mine oft drives one to despair. 

Let me, however, try love's fire to quell 

Ere it consumes me quite. And so farewell 

Now to the girl whose name / dare not tell. 



190 APRIL. 

March goeth out with lamblike calmness, while 

April — capricious April — graciously 

Enters upon the scene. A sunny smile 

She has for everyone : and O ! as we 

Inhale the scent of flowers borne from fair 

Elysian fields where happiness and love 

And peace abound, a joy most sweet and rare, 

Like unto that bliss found in heaven above, 

Lightens our hearts. April through all her tears 

Encheeringly will smile. Hope in our ears 

Now whisperingly hints of happy years. 



MAY DAY. 

May has arrived : come, let us seek our Queen 

And crown her with fair flowers : let us, too. 

Erect a May-pole on the Village Green. 

Should we not dance 'neath skies so clear and blue? 

I read a message in the flowers of 

Ethereal spring that glorifies my life. 

Again hope tells me I shall meet my love, 

Looked for so long through years of toil and strife. 

Let us with song greet jocund spring, and may 

Each one join in the dance. O ! 'tis a day 

Never to pass from memory away. 



BEREFT. 191 

Methinks if I possessed — well, say about 

A million dollars (which amount would be 

Enough for all my needs) that I'd skip out 

Soon from the store : for O ! the place to me 

Is dismal now. Yes, since Danbury's Pride 

Evanished from our midst life once so fair 

And bright with hope has changed, and I have sighed 

Like one crushed by a grief too great to bear. 

Let me, then, have a million dollars. Gee! 

Each plunk I'd spend searching for her. Ah me! 

Now lost to sight but not to memory. 



BY THE BALUSTRADE. 

Search where I may I know my quest shall be 
Useless so far as finding any maid 
So sweet as is the little one I see 
At work each morning by the balustrade. 
No eyes there are so bright as hers : when I 
Peer in their depths I find love biding there. 
Had I my youth restored to me I'd try 
Right valiantly to win this maiden fair. 
Alas I my youth has passed : and yet whyf ore 
Need I repine? Life still on me confers 
Enough of joy. Am I not at the store 
Rewarded daily by those smiles of hers? 



192 THE DESOLATED MANSE. 

" Music hath charms," so it is said. 
I know it well ; my soul recalls 
Strains which this now mute harp once shed 
So joyously through these cold halls. 
Long years have passed since her hands strayed 
O'er these chords now so sadly still. 
The dear old melodies she played ! 
They haunt me yet and ever will. 
I oft at midnight hour these 
Echoing corridors traverse ; 
Bats, swooping from the musty eaves. 
Round me their weirdsome flights rehearse. 
I think of those dead days that were 
So bright, so happy. I seem to 
Catch 'mid the gloom a glimpse of her — 
Of her I ever found most true : 
Earth's only woman I found true. 



L'ENVOI. 

The last line reminds one of Poe. 
Do you not think so, Miss Briscoe? 

Perhaps Poe's wraith at my elbow 
Stood when I wrote it, Miss Briscoe. 

It's easy — quite a cinch, you know — 
To write acrostics, Miss Briscoe. 

Easy, that is, when helped by so 
Po(e)tent a spirit. Miss Briscoe. 

Sometimes I wish, though, your cog-no- 
Men had less letters. Miss Briscoe. 

But tell me, is it comme il faut 
To write in this way. Miss Briscoe? 

Did you say " cut it out? " Yes? No? 
Be more perspicuous. Miss Briscoe. 



DAY DREAMS. 193 

My rhyming verses never brought 
Imperishable fame to me; 
Still I regret not that I sought 
Sometimes the Muse of Poesy. 
Lured by Love's smiles, I tried to scale 
Olympic heights. O ! how I tried ! 
There was, Hope said, no word like fail ; 
Though now I think Hope must have lied. 
I still, however, onward press — 
Ever, yes, ever onward. I 
Believe that I shall win success, 
Riches, and love before I die. 
I still build airy castles whose 
Sky-scraping battlements command 
Charming and most entrancing views 
Of a fair sea and a fair land : 
Entrancingly fair sea and land. 



THE OCEAN. 

Mighty in its wild wrath, the sea 
Is just as mighty when its soul 
Seemingly sleeps: the waves in glee 
So gently then on these shores roll. 
Let me live in the hearing of 
Old ocean's breaking waves ; .to me 
The sound is dear, for O ! I love 
The restless sea's sad symphony. 
It breathes of hope, and though I roam 
Earth's surface o'er, Hope's fair tale may, 
By heaven's wind across the foam, 
Reach me and brighten my life's way. 
I love thee, Ocean ; life would seem 
So sweet could I alway live here 
Close by thy side, and dream, and dream 
Of some one who is fair and dear : 
Exceeding fair, ah yes! — and dear. 



194 LASTING LOVE. 

Many a man believes he is 
In love because a woman's smile 
Stirs his cold heart and quickens his 
Slow-beating pulse a little while. 
Let my love have the depth and might 
Of the illimitable sea — 
The love which abides day and night 
Through all time and eternity. 
I know I shall love thus when I 
Encounter her. Fate sometime may 
Be kind ; yes, we shall meet and my 
Rejoicing heart will love for aye. 
I know her lips will, with an art 
Sweeter than spoken words can be, 
Confess that the love of her heart 
Of hearts is mine — that she loves me : 
Ever, yes, ever will love me. 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

May Love's blest song be sung to-day 
In every home on this fair earth. 
So subtly sweet seems song's strange sway- 
Song such as that heard at Love's birth. 
Let every one partake with zest 
Of this most gracious season's cheer. 
This Christmas Day ! Ah ! 'tis the best 
That ever dawned upon our sphere. 
It is indeed a good time when 
Earth's weary ones learn something of 
Bright joys, and in which sad-eyed men 
Reclasp to their hearts a lost love. 
It gladdens this life to learn such 
Sweet truths; and O ! what joy 'tis to 
Convey to those we love so much 
Our Christmas wishes as we do : 
Each heartfelt wish, as we now do. 



THIS LIFE. 195 

Merely a player on life's stage 

Is every man and woman. True! 

Shakespeare, the poet and the sage, 

Says so, and he most surely knew. 

Life is indeed a mystery: 

Our little life " that's rounded by 

The long, long sleep which is to be 

Taken by all, for all must die. 

It is not well, however, to 

Expatiate on mournful things. 

Be cheerful ; he is wisest who 

Rejoices, dances, laughs and sings. 

I don't believe that it is a 

Sin to assume a cheerful air. 

Can worrying help matters? Nay. 

O ! why need any one despair ? 

Earth's fair, life's good; why, then, despair? 



TO THOSE WHO WAIT. 

'Mid the world's storms and sordid strife, 
Its cares and trials, Hope's bright smile 
Still brings us cheer; there's joy in life; 
So let's be patient for a while. 
Lest we forget, 'twere well to write 
On the mind's tablets that we may 
True joy obtain by acting right; 
There surely is no better way. 
In time love's dream, that brings into 
Each lover's heart such rapture, will 
Be realized. Youth's dreams ! Ah, who 
Recalls them not? They haunt us still. 
If we but wait, life's every prize 
Shall, so Hope says, be ours at last. 
Can we not wait? Who says Hope lies? 
Our faith will outlive doubt's rude blast. 
Earth's hope-filled sons fear not doubt's blast. 



196 A PHANTASY. 

The result, probably, of too much out and in going between the acts. 

Methought I met Pierrock R. Fell 
In Boothby's 'tween the acts last night ; 
Said he — " I like your verses well; 
Such poetry fills me with delight. 
Let me " (and here a check he drew) 
" Out of sheer admiration for 
Those tuneful traits of yours hand you 
This check it has pleased me to draw." 
It — the check — was made out for just 
Eight hundred thousand dollars. O ! 
But I'll blow it all in, I must 
Right off, ye gods ! on Miss — er — no. 
I should not mention here her name, 
She might not like it ; but the " dough " 
Cert'ly I'll blow in just the same 
On her — that is, on Miss Bris — no — 
Er — no. What ! tell her name ? O no I 



THE GIRLS. 

Most men, methinks, mistakingly, 

Imagine every girl a saint; 

Some girls may be so, still I see 

Sometimes, not often, one who aint. 

Like us, the girls are human ; so 

Of course some faults they may possess ; 

This doesn't seem to matter though : 

The men adore them none the less. 

It's just as well that women are 

Earthly as we, else they would be 

Beyond our reach, like a fair star 

Rolling along an azure sea. 

If girls sin — ah well, what of it? 

Surely such sinners' sins, so small, 

Chivalric men mind not a bit. 

Our girls ! we love them — faults and all. 

Earth's angels sin? No, not at all. 



AN ACROSTICAL ADVENTURER. 197 

Many believe acrostics are 
Immensely hard to write — and read. 
Still difficulties do not bar 
Some souls from striving to succeed. 
Let an absorbing passion sway 
One's soul, for instance ; then in all 
The world no tasks are found today 
That can this love-swayed soul appall. 
It would, I have no doubt, be more 
Easy to navigate the air. 
Brave arctic perils, or explore 
Regions remote, and perish there — 
It would be easier, I say. 
Such things to do than writing these 
Confounded lines, but 'neath the sway 
Of Love we can't do as we please : 
Earth's creatures can't do as they please. 



DREAM KNOWLEDGE. 

My plummet line I shall not throw 

Into love's sea. Ah ! who can sound 

Such depths? Love's meaning, in dreams though, 

Sometimes methought that I have found. 

Love is a mystery, it seems : 

One which no mortal understands. 

Though I have held (that is, in dreams) 

The key to it within my hands. 

In dreams (just dreams) I've clasped a maid 

Enthusiastically. What ! 

Breathe here her name? I am afraid. 

Really, I think I better not. 

It seemed (in dreams) right to caress 

So rare a maid ; but dreams oft go 

Contrariwise : hence she, ah yes ! 

On me caresses may bestow : 

Effusively, mayhap, bestow. 



198 A MODERN ROSALIND. 

These lines, composed after witnessing the theosophic play of 
" My Friend from India," are respectfully dedicated to 

Love is my theme. I sing of love. I know 

One whose rare charms have taught me something of 

The mystery which makes this life below 

The sweet precursor of that one above. 

In Arden's wood a lover on the trees 

Engraved the name of her who stirred his muse: 

But one must in prosaic days like these 

Resort to — well, let's say The Orpheum News. 

Imprinted then on leaves, not tree-barks, love 

Shall now be told. My fair one's name? Ah, well! 

Can she be the reincarnation of 

Orlando's sweet 

Enchantress? Who may tell? 



A TWILIGHT REVERIE. 

Evening draws near. I think of her — of her. 

Vainly, alas! I try to solve life's strange 

Elusive mystery. To days that were 

Lighted by her dear presence my thoughts range. 

Years — O what sad, sad years ! — have passed since then. 

Now o'er life's fairer days my memory 

Fondly doth dwell : I live them once again. 

Restored is my lost love: she looks on me 

And smiles : my arms her yielding form enfold. 

No words we speak : our souls, as our lips meet, 

Converse each with the other. All is told 

In one long kiss, 

So rapturously sweet ! 



LOVE'S QUANDARY. 199 

A Valentine. 

Let me my thoughts, St. Valentine, 

Express: one's heartchords will 
On this most gracious day of thine 

Vibrate with love's glad thrill. 
There are two Orpheum artists who 

Encheer and entertain 
This town of ours, and I do 

Love well the peerless twain. 
I can't tell which I love the more, 

Yea, I am in a plight. 
Each maid I tenderly adore : 

Now I'm distracted quite. 
Both are so radiant. Ah ! my 

Fond heart writhes in Love's snares. 
Really my soul's aflame. Can I 

Resist such charms as theirs? 
I know men in the fierce throes of 

A passionate despair 
Struggle in vain : but will not Love 

Now deign to hear a prayer? 
Come, kindly Hope, and 'mid the gloom 

Cheer me. O ! may thy smiles 
On me alight as towards the tomb 

I tread life's weary miles. 
Enable me with braver heart. 

Sweet Hope, in life to act my part. 



200 WE POOR MEN. 

Red lips just made for kissing, eyes in whose 
Unfathomable depths love seems to dwell. 
But we poor men who have fond hearts to lose — 
Yes, we had best beware of Beauty's spell. 

Still certain things are tempting, and some day 
Her lips may so alluring prove that we 
A kiss shall steal therefrom. Yes, come what may, 
We'll risk all danger for such ecstasy. 



A SPINSTER. 

Lines rvritten in an album of a young lady who on one merry 
making occasion playfully alluded to herself as a confirmed 

spinster. 

Sweet one, I trust thy future may 
Prove joyous as thy days now are : 
I trust as thou shalt tread life's way 
No shadows may thy pleasures mar. 
Surrounded now by those who more 
Than love thee as a friend, I trow 
Earth will for thee have joys in store 
Rarer than all thou knowest now. 



MY HEART'S SECRET. 201 

Written on Saint Valentine's Eve, igoo. 

I. 

A privilege, ah yes ! is mine — 
Love grants all men a right: 
I therefore may, St. Valentine, 
Construct some rhymes this night. 
Earth's fairest maid I would address 
But her name must not be 
Revealed, nor yet dare I express 
All thoughts that come to me. 
Could I — but no, I must, dear friend, 
Keep my heart's secret till life's end. 

II. 

And yet 'tis sweet to whisper of 
Life's dearest joy : 'tis sweet 
Indeed to know there is a love 
Can make our lives complete. 
Enshrined within my heart is her 
Bright imaged form: her well 
Remembered smiles my heart-depths stir 
As on the past I dwell. 
Could I — ^but no, I must, dear friend, 
Keep my heart's secret till life's end. 



302 AN APPARITION. 

Evening has come : I sit here in my room 

Dreaming of her whom I so fondly love. 

I see her face amid the deepening gloom — 

That fair sweet face : I hear the music of 

Her gentle voice, and O ! in my heart's core 

Peace, so long absent, dwells again, and I 

Am happy and contented : yea, far more 

Than I was in the days that have gone by. 

The ecstasy of a new love is mine : 

Earth's fairest daughter dawns upon my sight. 

Red lips, bright eyes and smiles that are divine 

Seem too much to withstand. I am this night 

O'erwhelmed by her rare charms: my soul, ah yes! 

Now knows a rapture I can not express. 



'NEATH LOWERING SKIES. 

My heart is sorrowful to-night: 

I am to lose a friend, alas ! 

Soon, not from memory but from sight. 

She — that dear friend of mine — shall pass. 

Earth hath its sorrows : there will be 

Days very dark and dull and drear 

In this our goodly town when she, 

The girl I love, is no more here. 

Hope will, though, through the mists of tears 

Point to the blest delights that are 

AAvaiting me in future years. 

Thus cheered by hope's resplendent star, 

The shadows that might otherwise 

Enshroud my soul will drift away. 

Right cheerily 'neath lowering skies 

Shall I stem duty's call obey. 

On life's w^ay, steep and rugged though it be, 

No fears I'll know, for Hope will walk with me. 



A WHISPERED PROMISE. 203 

Ere I met her the world seemed so 

Dreary and dull and full of care; 

I knew not then, as now I know, 

That life is beautiful and fair. 

Her smiles encheer me, and as I •' 

Peer in her eyes I'm conscious of 

A new found hope that cannot die — 

The hope that I may gain her love. 

The world has been transformed since her 

Entrancing smiles made skies so blue : 

Rare are the joys fate will confer 

Some day on those whose love is true. 

On Hope's low whispered promise I 

Now with the fullest faith rely. 



AN UNDAUNTED SPIRIT. 

May I not realize some day 
All those blest dreams of mine when I 
Roamed carelessly along life's way 
In youth's bright time long gone by? 
Earth then was fair. When one is young 
Life is most precious : my mind dwells 
On those dear days. The songs then sung 
Re-echo still in my heart-cells. 
And yet in these sad, later years 
Some comfort comes to me. Hope still 
'Mid the encircling gloom appears 
In all her beauty. Nay, I will 
Let no grief daunt my spirit. May not I 
Enjoy life in the coming years? Ah, why 
Yield to despair when Hope stands smiling by? 



204 LORA. 

My thoughts are free, yet O ! they never stray 

Away from her — my fond soul's true ideal. 

Red, sweet and tempting are her lips : some day 

I shall therefrom a thousand kisses steal. 

Ere in my life she came I knew not of 

Love's subtle power : now my heart knows more 

Of this world's joy. I in my new found love 

Rejoice as I have never done before. • 

A rapture, such as sometimes in sweet dreams 

Sweeps o'er the slumbering soul, doth in me stir : 

My longing eyes behold hope's star that gleams 

In the bright heavens as I think of her. 

Let hope's fair star shine on my life's pathway 

Ever as now. 'Tis sweet to think I may 

Yet gain the favor of my love — some day. 



THAT HEART OF MINE. 

A girl, whose name I'll not impart, 

Now has possession of 

No less a thing than my fond heart, 

And I may die from love. 

Now who without a heart can live? 

Each day I sadly pine. 

Will not this beauteous maiden give 

Me back that heart of mine? 

Am I to die? Life seems so dear 

Now in the springtime of the j-ear. 



A DREAM. 205 

Respectfully dedicated to that chummy pair of girls whose inspir- 
ing names are indissolubly united in the author's lines. 

A happy dream I had last night, 

Methought that I was at the store, 
Noon had arrived and I was quite 

Anxious to have some grub, therefore 
No dallying I did but I 

Rushed rapidly across the way, 
And sour krout and hash and pie 

I called for while in that cafe. 
Near me John Rockefeller sat 

Enjoying strawberries and cream: 
Ere long we two had quite a chat. 

Said he [ah! this was but a dream] 
" Will you accept my check for a 

Mere million dollars, worthy friend? " 
"Most surely I shant say you nay ", 

I answered : then John quickly penned 
A check : and O ! when I got this 

Large sum I almost had a stroke. 
Now I shall on a life of bliss 

Enter forthwith, then — I awoke. 

Yes, and discovered I was — " broke ". 



NOTA BENE. 

/ '' write " like Poe! But is it po- 
Lite to be Poe-like, Miss Briscoe? 

My style is somewhat different, though. 
From Edgar Allan's, Miss Briscoe. 



206 A PLEA FOR CHEERFULNESS. 

Earth is most beautiful : and is it not 
Vain to brood over wrongs beyond control? 
Endeavor to be cheerful : do not blot 
Life's fairest joys from out the longing soul. 
Youth is the time for gladness, hope and love : 
No frowns then come upon fair Fortune's face: 
Death seems far off, and there are day-dreams of 
Unclouded lives that show no sorrow's trace. 
Not mine it is to revel in these joys : 
Gone has my youth's all too speedy reign. 
Ah ! I have lived to learn that Time destroys, 
Ne'er to restore, those castles built in Spain. 



ASK NOT HER NAME. 

My thoughts to-night are pleasant ones — they're of a gentle maid : 
Ask not her name, for I won't tell ; I really am afraid. 
Unless you look into my heart or search these lines you'll ne'er 
Discover the sweet name bestowed upon my lady fair. 



A VISION. 207 

To two happy girls, who have sometimes pretended to he unhappy, 

these lines, written by an unhappy man who has sometimes 

pretended to be happy, are respectfully dedicated. 

Sometimes the world looks bright to me, 

No clouds are in the sky, 
And my heart knows an ecstasy 

Each hour that glides by. 
Deep draughts of joy I quaff, the things 

That vex me disappear, 
I seem to fly on rapid wings 

To some bright, distant sphere. 
Earth fades from view as I afar 

In the empyrean rise, 
Reaching at last a beauteous star 

Encircling Paradise: 
I hear the happy voices of 

Redeemed souls who make clear 
The strange, sweet mystery of love 

In hymns we all hold dear. 
There comes to me a peace divine 

That I before ne'er knew. 
Exceeding any dream of mine 

That could on earth come true. 
Rare vision of a moment ! How 

Ephemeral, alas! 

Ravishing a soul that now 
Into night's gloom must pass. 



208 A LOST LETTER RESTORED. 

My mind this day is gladdened by a hope. 
It may seem strange a torn envelope 
Should have the power into my life to bring 
So fair and dear a hope. I needs must sing. 
Ah ! if a something, vague yet sweet, should stir 
My deeper feelings while I think of her, 
Am I to blame? Tell me, is it a sin 
Endeavoring thus by rhythmic means to win 
Perchance a smile from one whose name is now 
Engravened on my heart? Ah, I somehow 
Am apprehensive, as all " authors " are, 
Concerning certain things — now in a car 
One fateful morn I lost my heart, ah me ! 
Can this 
Kind maid restore it? We shall see. 



MAPLE HALL. 

Maple Hall. That charming spot, that dear, belov'd retreat ! 
Amid a world of flowers it stands, half hidden from the street. 
Yes, many a stroll with May I've had within its pleasant shade. 
Just at the dewy hour of eve when day's about to fade. 
Viewed thus by twilight's mystic ray its beauties ne'er can be 

forgot. 
Each blooming flower reflecting plain the peace that lingers round 

that spot. 
Rare are those flowers, sweet is May ; no maiden is so fair : 
Nor birds that carol sweetly can with her their songs compare. 
Oh May, dear May, in after years I hope, what'er thy lot may be. 
No grief nor aught that causes pain shall ever, ever come near 

thee. 



A VALENTINE OFFERING. 209 

Dare I a fair young maid address this day, 
Or must I not my humble offering send? 
Let me, however, not to fear give way ; 
Love now is favored and may not offend. 
Yes, thanks to thee. Saint Valentine, I now 
Have freedom to dispatch these lines of mine : 
I, this glad day, am privileged to bow 
Lowly in homage at sweet Beauty's shrine — 
Longing to have her for my valentine. 



JUNO'S SWANS. 

" And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, 
Still we went coupled, and inseparable." 

— Shakespeare.. 

Saint Valentine, thy loyal subjects may 

Give utterance to all their thoughts this day. 
Unhesitatingly I call the Muse, 

Relying on her kindness to infuse 
Some life and spirit in the lines I now 

Am wishful to compose. My thoughts somehow 
Are pleasant — very pleasant ones, for they 

Concern two maids whom I met on a day 
Never to be forgotten. Ofttimes of 

Each maid I think, for both of them I love. 
No other maids so sweet in this world dwell 
As they whose names I dinna care to tell. 



210 IN YOUTH'S BRIGHT TIME. 

Fair maiden, in youth's happy time all things appeareth fair. 
Life seemeth sweet, and mirth prevails unclouded by a care ; 
On every hand are blessings found, and friends are true and kind. 
Refulgent beams Hope's star, and peace abideth in the mind. 
Each day brings newer pleasures, rarer joys and more delight: 
Nor fears nor dark forebodings come to mar youth's visions bright. 
Contentment, health and beauty mark the reign of youth, and thou 
Enjoyest all these blessings. Yes, most favored maiden, now 
The pathway through life's fairest scenes thou dost with gladness 

tread. 
0! when have passed these joyous days, when youth's bright time 

has fled, 
When thy now sunny brow is marked by time, yet then to thee 
No grief I trust shall come : and though youth's gladsome sea- 
son be 
Soon over, yet in future years I hope that thou shall not 
E'er know a grief, e'er lose a friend. O ! happy be thy lot. 
Now Fortune smiles upon thee. Could a maid be favored more ! 
Dear maiden, mayst thou thus be blest till all life's scenes are o'er. 



A TWILIGHT RETROSPECT. 

Evening is drawing near, its mystic shades 

Mantle the earth with many a sombre hue : 

In the far west the sunlight, ere it fades. 

Lingers awhile to bid a last adieu. 

Yea, now's the time I love in thought to stray 

'Mid scenes and pleasures of the olden days. 

Clouds that have gathered memory drives away, 

And brings the past undimmed to meet my gaze. 

Recalled to mind is many a pleasant scene 

That lights the gloom of twilight's fleeting hour: 

Hope is revived, and far-off Florentine 

Unfolds its joys, 

Restored by memory's power. 



A SUNSET ON CORSON'S INLET. 211 

Respectfully dedicated to — 

'Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll !" 
Just now, as I muse o'er those lines addressed 
Unto this mystic flood, my o'erwrought soul 

Out of its prison leaps ; the radiant west, 
Dappled with dying day's fond, lingering gleams, 

Holds me entranced ; I gaze with ecstasy 
On the vast world of waters, and life seems 

Now O ! so happy by the sounding sea. 
Love's dream, that I thought died long, long ago, 

Revisits me ; again within my veins 
Pulsates the wildish blood's enquickened flow. 

Over the waves float music's soft, faint strains. 
How peaceful and how wondrous strange is this 

Sweet quiet moment in the eventide. 
Calm is my mind ; with what ease I dismiss 

All the old cares o'er which erstwhile I've sighed. 
Lightly the zephyrs o'er the salt waves steal ; 

Peace broods upon the scene, and in my breast 
A happiness, serene and strong and real, 

Has taken her abode and brought me — rest. 
Rest ! O most rapturous moment ! ne'er before 

In this world have I gained a knowledge of 
A thing so precious. I have on this shore 

Learn'd what means rest, and happiness, and love. 
But now the shadows fall upon the strand ; 

Lower and lower sinks the parting sun ; 
At last the stars look down upon the land ; 

I turn me homeward for the day is done. 
Under the star-lit sky I walk along. 

Pondering on joys that I shall know no more : 
Ephemeral joys — a sweet, soul-haunting song 

Sung by some nymph, whose fair form on the shore, 
Revealed in sunset's golden sheen, I saw. 



212 SAND CASTLES. 

My thoughts are pleasant ones, for they 
Are of a little maid I saw- 
Delving in sand, and in this way 
Enjoying herself on the shore. 
Let me send her a verse or two ; 
It may perhaps remind her of 
New friends — 'mong whom is the one who 
Endeavors here to show his love. 

New friends may prove, ah ! don't forget, 
As true as old ones; when our hands 
Under the " moated castle " met, 
Gladly my heart sang on the sands. 
How soon the waves, though, swept away 
Those grand and stately castles we 
Erected that bright, happy day 
Near the resounding summer sea! 



THE BOY. 

Joyously you shout and play 
On the sand-drifts by the pier, 
Happy as the livelong day. 
Never sad when " Madie " 's near. 



THE GIRL. 

Visions of a delightful isle 
I oft behold. Near the glad sea 
Romps a fair child ; a radiant smile 
Graciously she bestows on me. 
I sit close by the breakers wild. 
Noticing things — sea, sky, ships, pier. 
I note with more joy, though, the child 
At play upon the sands anear. 



ONE YEAR AGO. 213 

Most strongly does God's wondrous sea 
Allure me. Ah ! those days were so 
Divinely beautiful which we 
Enjoyed here one short year ago. 
Lightly as then the salt breeze blows 
In from the deep, but on the shore 
No friend now greets me. I miss those 
Endeared delights that are no more. 

Now the forsaken beach I pace 
Alone — alone ! Life, which is now 
Unlighted by her beaming face, 
Grows very wearisome somehow. 
Hope, though, shall be my comforter. 
This life were sad without hope's cheer. 
One summertime I walked with her 
Near this now desolated pier. 



THE DAYS THAT WERE. 

My mind retains the image of 

A girl whose sweet and sunny smile 

Drew me to her and won my love 

Eons ago on a fair isle. 

Love, do you think how oft we sat, 

In those days which were so care-free. 

Near the wild waves, which beat on that 

Enchanted island of the sea? 

Now here in loneliness I sit 
And think of days — the days that were! 
Useless it is to mourn, yet it 
Grieves me that I am far from her. 
Hope, though, her happiest song sings; 
Thus cheered, why now give way to woe? 
Each day that passes by but brings 
Nearer the joys I am to know. 



214 SONNET. 

Addressed to a fair suffragist. 

March on, O radiant pilgrim; victory 
Is soon to perch upon the banner thy 
Small hands wave in the breeze. Can man deny 
So fair a woman aught ? Ah ! thou shouldst be 
Possessed of every right. Man's gallantry 
Has been enquickened, watching thee pass by. 
On life's bleak roads, beneath a sullen sky, 
Exultingly thou goest. Verily, 
Beauty like thine must conquer ; thou'lt secure 
Enfranchisement ere long. O ! peerless one, 
Haply the Senators at Washington 
Are men whose hearts thy witching smiles can lure. 
When they see thee, then — then, ye may be sure. 
New truths shall stir them ; thy fight will be done. 
February i8, 1913. 



HOPE'S STAR. 

My heart, O maiden of the dreamy eyes, 
Is sorely stricken. Since along our street, 
So short a time ago-, your dainty feet 
So fleetly flew, I've heaved unnumbered sighs. 
Peace dwells no more with me. I have grown wise, 
Having now learned to love. Am I to meet 
One of these days the suffragist whose sweet, 
Enrapturing smiles enthrilled me? My soul cries, 
But she to whom it cries may never hear. 
Earth seems so joyless now since she passed by. 
Hope's star I still discern, though, in yon sky, 
And I am cheered. I know the time is near 
When I shall meet her. Life ! O ! 'tis so dear. 
Now that its sweetest, wildest joys are nigh. 
February 20, 1913. 



VOTES FOR WOMEN. 215 

Men make mistakes, and women too — sometimes. 

I ne'ertheless admire women ; their 

Slight faults I overlook. She who is fair 

Should be (I trust that Phoebe likes these rhymes) 

Permitted to engage in life's worst crimes; 

However willfully she acts, who dare 

Object, e'en though she drive us to despair? 

Earth's daughters rule men in all lands and climes. 

Beauty needs but to nod and men will go 

Even to death for her. And yet, and yet, 

Having so much, some women wish to get 

A vote ! They now want votes ! It seems that no 

Woman is satisfied — not one ; and so 

Now even Phoebe is a suffragette! 

February 21, 1913. 



MARCHING ON. 

To the marching suffragists in general, and to one especial suf- 
frage marcher in particular, this sonnet is respectfully dedicated. 

My sympathies, this dreary winter day, 

In fullest measure go out to those who, 

Strong in their faith and stout of heart, pursue 

So pluckily their journey. Bravely they 

Plod onward to the Capitol. O ! may 

Hope, which thus far hath cheered those pilgrims through 

Oppressive, weary days, continue to 

Encourage and sustain them on their way. 

By day and night, to reach the destined goal, 

Each of these gentle women struggles o'er 

Heavy and miry roads. The rains that pour 

And flood the narrow byways daunt no soul. 

When woman wills, can aught her will control ? 

Nay, nay — she gains the object she strives for. 

February 23, 1913. 



216 A DANGEROUS PILGRIM. 

On the warpath our Phoebe still sticks. 
She stoops not to militant tricks ; 

She knows that there lies 

More harm in her eyes 
Than in throwing slugs, hatchets and bricks. 



MY MARYLAND. 

The Lament of a fair Hiker overheard recently in the vicinity of 

Havre de Grace. 

Suffragists should such sloppy states shake; 
Maryland's mud-meanderings make 

Me mad ; still on clothes 

Mud's a thing, I suppose, 
To ad (d) mire. O how my feet ache! 



FINALE. 

The " hike " 's o'er. My last line is penn'd. 
All things, except love, have an end. 

If love, too, could die 

(Make a note of this) I 
Would be happier. Farewell, dear friend. 



ESTHETICS. 

I love beauty by day or by night. 
As I might in this trite manner cite. 

To take some slight delight 

In a sightly light sprite. 
Or a bright sybarite, seems quite right. 



IMPROMPTU LINES. 217 

Written on an Atlantic City ocean pier, September 20, igi2. 

O ! what a perfect day is this ! 

The wild waves play around the pier. 
Complete, indeed, would be my bliss 

If Madeline were only here. 

But Madeline is far away; 

Her absence spoils the day for me. 
My heart can not be light and gay 

When she's not down here by the sea. 



IN RESTRAINT OF FLIGHT. 

Poets love freedom, hence some dread 

Acrostics ; it irks them to write 
A prescribed letter at the head 

Of every line ; it checks their flight. 

Imagine, if you really can, 

Walt Whitman, who had no regard 

For verse rules, whose lines none could " scan "- 
Imagine, I say, this free bard 

Dallying with acrostics ! No, 

Walt's isoul brooked no restraint, 'tis clear. 
But my soul is less free, and so 

I've worked out some acrostics here. 

I find them not so hard to write. 

The letters in a name I love 
Suggest ideas and thoughts I might 

Not otherwise have e'er dreamt of. 



218 THE PAST. 

"The past is dead," so runs the song: 
Ere dying, though, it tarries long 

With us — in memory. 
The past ne'er dies : thoughts of it stay 
To brighten or to cloud life's way 

In days that are to l)e. 



THE FUTURE. 

'Tis well that Fate denies 

To all men 'neath the skies 
A knowledge of the future. Joy or woe, 

A better life, or worse, 

A blessing or a curse — 
Whate'er may come, 'twere best not now to know. 



LIFE'S ROAD. 

No hand clasps mine : no voice into 

My ear breathes aught of love: no word 

Of that dear story, old yet new, 
I ever have in this world heard. 

And yet undauntedly I go 

Life's steep and rugged way along. 

Love's joys, Hope says, I am to know : 
And Hope encheers and makes me strong.. 



FANCY. 219 

What if my body's fettered to 

A desk, the fact remains 
That I, in fancy, yet may view 

Fair Nature's vast domains. 

O'er sylvan lakes on moonlit nights 

I oft float joyously; 
I view the world from snow-crowned heights, 

And it looks fair to me. 

On Fancy's wings I journey far, 

I speed across the sea : 
The cities of the Old World are 

Familiar ones to me. 

I am — in thought — a man of means. 
Whose vaults with gold are stored ; 

To revel 'mid earth's fairest scenes 
I can full well afford. 



AIR CASTLES. 

Who has not dreamt day dreams and been 

The architect of fair 
And stately edifices in 

The unsubstantial air? 

Just ere they topple over those 

Dream structures seem to be 
Most beautiful. Alas ! Fate shows 

Us here her irony. 



220 OPTIMISM. 

The bees are making honey, 
A thing I ne'er have done. 

The trusts are making money, 
And I am making none. 

A critic, without meaning 
To cause me any pain, 

Might say I show a leaning 
Towards utterances inane. 

But I was just expressing 

This thought which came to me — 

That one without possessing 
The talents of a bee, 

Or who lacks golden treasure. 
May yet from life extract 

Some sweetness and some pleasure; 
I've found this is a fact. 



A LOST WORLD. 

The world will ne'er be mine again ; 

I had it once ; its treasures were 
All mine, all mine in those days when 

I fancied I was loved by her. 

I was a fool — a fool. Yet still 
In that heart she so lightly tossed 

Away there rankles naught of ill. 
I pine not for the world I've lost. 

A loveless world has no real charms. 

This I have learned — e'en I, I who 
Once clasped a woman in my arms 

And thought (poor fool!) that she was true. 



HOPE. 221 

What is it that sustains us in 

The conflict ever raging here? 

A hope it is that makes life dear — 
A hope that we the fight shall win. 

We toil and suffer not in vain ; 

We know beyond these scenes of strife, 

In this probationary life, 
All that we strive for we shall gain. 

What if Fate frowns and seems to thwart 

Our purposes at every turn ! 

Sometime and somewhere we may earn 
The blessings we so long have sought. 



FATE. 



At tin:ies life seems 

So sweet ; our dreams 

Of love are fair, and hope's star beams 

In a bright sky; 
But storms arise. 
And sullen skies 
Frown on us as, with tear-dimmed eyes, 

We say — goodby. 

Life is so strange, 

So full of change; 

Fate oft steps in to disarrange 

Our plans, and we 
Lose hope and mourn : 
A friend has gone, 
And love, that seemed about to dawn, 

Is not to be. 



222 THE POETS. 

The poets are the ones 

Best able of earth's sons 
To solve the mystery of life : they bring 

An overflowing love 

Into the study of 
All problems that are worth unraveling. 

In highest realms they soar, 

In deepest depths they bore, 
Truth's glittering gems they glean from every field : 

With hearts that hope makes light 

They climb Parnassus' height. 
To them fair Nature doth her secrets yield. 

And so these are the ones 

Best able of earth's sons 
To solve life's mystery : the joy of song 

They one time brought mankind, 

And some day they shall find 
Life's meaning for which they have searched so long. 



KNOWLEDGE. 

Whyfore be wise? It is the fool 

Who enjoys life, who laughs and sings. 

The happiest are, as a rule, 

They who know least about earth's things. 

Yet for the song and vacant laugh 

Of Folly's aimless creatures I 
Care not ; let me on the rough path 

Of Knowledge struggle till I die. 



POET'S PROGRESS. 223 

(Altruistic allusions alliieratively arranged.) 

Rarely repressing random rhymes, 

Forever foraging for fame, 

Ambitious authors always aim 
To triumph these tempestuous times. 

Some super-sensitive souls start 

Falteringly forward. Fear-filled fry! 
But bolder bards bound bravely by, 

Defying Death's destructive dart. 

Harmony hypnotizes hearts. 

We watch with wonder — we weak wights — 

Homeric heroes haunt high heights, 
Performing proud Parnassian parts. 

Strange stars, so sparkling, so sublime, 

Seem saying (saying smilingly), 

Song's striving Sons shall surely see 
Success secured — sometiyne, sometime. 



PRAGMATIC PSYCHOLOGY. 

Practical people prefer 
Perfectly pure provender. 

Properly prepared peas 

Particularly please 
Poesy's proudest philosopher. 



224 PARNASSUS. 

Why struggle on? It was not meant 
For me to scale this steep ascent. 

I fear 
To venture further. 'Tis in dreams — 
Yes, only then the summit seems 

Anear. 

Why should I toil so? I'm aware 
That I the sunny heights can ne'er 

Attain. 
I know I'll fail, and yet to me 
The struggle does not seem to be 

All vain. 

I'll fail, that is, from this mount's crest 
To catch a glimpse of Heaven's blest 

Abode; 
But Love's refracted light may shed 
Its rays upon me as I tread 

Life's road. 

This glory streaming from above — 
This light, this flashing light of love 

From those 
Illumined peaks shall fortify 
My wandering spirit until my 

Life's close. 



A POET'S SOUL. 

A poet's soul is free; it will o'erleap 
All barriers ; to no mandate it yields ; 

'Twould be a sad world were that soul to keep 
From frequenting fair Fancy's fragrant fields. 



FINALE. 225 

Youth's hopes have faded — those that promised well. 

Love, fame, wealth are denied me ; vainly do 
I try to climb the craggy mount where dwell 

The Muses nine, one whom I've dared to woo. 

And she, the fairest Goddess of them all, 

Whose kindly smile I one time strove to gain, 

Will ne'er hear of my struggles and my fall. 

Yet I have known her ; life has not been vain. 

My end is near; I do not feel I've made 

A failure of this life ; although I ne'er 
Have scaled the haunted mountain, yet I've strayed 

Around its base, and dreamt some sweet dreams there! 



THE LADY OF BETHAYRES. 

" At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour 

The thoughts that burst their channels into song. 
And sent them to thee — such a tribute, lady, 

As Beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest." 

— Edward Bulwer Lytton 

When one has conscientiously 

Performed a task of any kind ; 
It is a pleasant thing to be 

Commended for the same, I find. 

The poem, lady, I sent you 

(I'm growing very frank these days) 

Was not so bad a one ; I knew 

That it was worthy of your praise. 

Worthy, at any rate, of some 

Acknowledgment: still in due time 
It may be my reward will come. 

Yes, some day you will read my rhyme. 

As yet you have not thanked me, though. 
For those lines o'er which I so long 

Have toiled ; but one should not, I know. 
Expect too much for a mere song. 



226 DAY DREAMING. 

Perhaps I am a foolish man 

To dream dreams, as I sometimes do, 

Which reason tells me never can 
In this life here on earth come true. 

But my dreams harm no one, it seems. 
Except myself ; hence, though unwise, 

It can't be wrong to dream the dreams 
I never am to realize. 



NO QUARREL. 

A sequel to Day Dreaming. 

Upon the whole, I don't believe 
That I have injured myself much 

By dreaming dreams. Why should I grieve 
Because I have indulged in such? 

Wise, cold and practical men, who 
Forge to the front in business strife, 

Might with great disapproval view 
What they regard my useless life. 

Yet I have kno\\ai something of 
Joys those wise, practical and cold 

Men may have missed, whose only love 
Lies in the mad pursuit of gold. 

Between those men, though, and myself 
There's no dispute ; we're all in quest 

Of happiness ; they who think wealth 
Secures it may perhaps know best. 

Quarrel? O ! no. Harsh feelings? None. 

We all intend to gain success 
As we view it ; so let each one 

In his own way seek happiness. 



THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS. 227 

When we're engrossed in schemes for wealth 

To others' rights we oft are blind ; 
But greed sometimes defeats itself, 

And money means not joy we find. 

To seek for happiness is right, 

And very natural ; yes, quite so. 
But in the quest to shirk and slight 

Duty and work is selfish though. 

Why, why devote in its pursuit 

Our days and nights without a pause? 

The " prize " may turn to Dead Sea fruit 
When seized ; then we shall curse the cause, 

Shall curse the cause that led us to 

Transfix upon a self -raised cross 
Our sordid, shriveled souls. But who, 

When such souls die, will mourn the loss? 



AN EARLY CALL. 

The poets all appear to die 

At a young age, at least the great 

Bards do; this worries me, for I 
Have not been feeling well of late. 

Byron and Burns and Chatterton, 
And Keats and Shelley, likewise Poe, 

Died young. How short a life each one 
Lived here ! Mine may be short also. 



A CHEERING AFTERTHOUGHT. 

If bards die young, I need not fear 
An early siunmons from life's stage ; 

For if but hards die young, 'tis clear 
I'll live to an extreme old age. 



228 AMBITION. 

Life's tasks seem light when one is young, 
Fame's ladder I once hoped to climb ; 

I still stand on its lowest rung, 
To reach the top requires time. 

Time! Yes, and something else one needs 
To gain the apex of youth's dreams : 

One must have genius who succeeds, 
And this I have not got, it seems. 

I, being fifty, have had quite 

Enough time for my ill-starred bout 

With fate. Mine is a losing fight, 
I'll soon be knocked completely out. 

I'll struggle on though, for I'm bound 
To scale Fame's ladder. What! too old? 

Nay, I'll mount at least one more round 
Before I'm laid out stiff and cold. 

Ambition's longings can't be stilled. 

Who can his restless soul subdue? 
In later years one's mind is filled 

With dreams as wild as e'er youth knew. 

Ambition ! Is it vanity. 

Mere vanity — ^base, low and coarse. 
Too vast and too intense to be 

Controlled by any himian force? 

Or can it be the promptings of 

A higher nature, reaching out 
For truer beauty, truer love 

In this world where men fear and doubt? 

I sometimes think it is a gift — 

A heaven-sent one to us here, 
Which serves to strengthen and uplift 

Our souls, and which makes life more dear. 



HOPES, DREAMS AND PRAYERS. 229 

But few of us shall realize 

Our hopes and ideals : yet the same 
Give rest to life: call not unwise, 
''^'" Therefore, the one who dreams of fame. 

Laugh not at those who may appear 

Too over sure of having their 
Fond prayers all answered — if not here, 

They may be granted, then, elsewhere. 



CALUMNY. 

" Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not 
escape calumny." — Shakespeare. 

Detractors may subdue 

And wholly crush those who 
Are of too frail a fibre to endure 

The worries incident 

To life, but that are meant 
To try us and to help us, be ye sure. 

Praise, I believe, has less 

To do with one's success 
Than many think. Calumniators may 

Prove useful. Calumny, 

Rather than flattery, 
Oft stimulates our efforts in life's fray. 

In the long run a man 

Can thwart and rout a clan 
Of slanderers. One with a conscience clear 

And a stout heart is well 

Equipped to meet and quell 
The foes whose arts a true man need not feax. 



230 PRELUDE. 

(Being a purgatorial introductory to Hell.) 

The place that I would now review 
Is most unpleasant ; no one, though. 

Thinks it exists, except a few 

Unhappy wretches whom I know. 

The theme's played out ; 'tis seldom brought 
Up for discussion now, and I 

Approach it gingerly. I ought 
To pass the matter coldly by. 

Less than one hundred years ago 

Men — many of them (how could they?) 

Believed in this abode of woe. 
How happier men are to-day ! 

We have, 'tis true, our cares and griefs. 
But ne'ertheless we're not downcast ; 

We are not tortured by beliefs 

Like those harsh ones taught in days past. 

Why, then, this old dispute renew? 

Whyfore revive sad themes ? Ah well ! 
I must, for some one told me to 

Express my views concerning hell. 

To speak of a place which has no 
Existence save in some one's vile 

Imagination, doesn't show 

Much sense — still it may cause a smile. 

A smile ! Well, if my lines provoke 
A smile I'll deem myself repaid. 

So let's to Hell. Better thus joke 
And smile than sigh and be afraid. 

There is no reason to regard 

The future apprehensively ; 
I know when I'm laid 'neath the sod 

There will be rest — sweet rest for me. 

O ! it is better to believe 

That which will make life joyous here 
Than to have views that make us grieve, 

And creeds that make us cringe and fear. 



HELL. 231 



Not that fair land beyond the sky — 
That blest abode of Love — 

Does Lola seem to think that I 
Have gained some knowledge of : 

But of the nether world she thinks 

I know a deal ; and though 
My very soul within me shrinks 

From going down below, 

Yet for this fairest of all maids 

I must, before my time, 
Visit the depths of Hades' shades 

And write it up — in rhyme. 

Lola consigns me now to — well, 

I shan't demur; I'll go, 
As otherwise I could not tell 

About those imps below. 

For hitherto I have not dealt 

(This may seem strange) with things 
Infernal : nay, I've sometimes felt 

A wish to soar on wings 

Far, far beyond our world, ah yes! 

To some remoter sphere, 
Where I might find a happiness 

I never have known here. 

But now I must forbear to soar ; 

Indeed, I must descend 
To interview the devils for 

Our fair, inquiring friend. 



232 HELL. 

Just here it seemeth passing strange, 

It really does, you know, 
That Lola's rambling thoughts should range 

To those imps down below. 

'Tis not mere curiosity 

On Lola's part, ah no ! 
She really feels a sympathy 

For those poor imps below. 

I wish for her sake I could tell 

About their various acts : 
When time permits a trip to hell, 

I'll ascertain the facts. 

I never yet have gone to — well, 

To Jericho ; and so 
There's little now that I can tell 

About those imps below. 

The theme, as one may well suppose, 

Affrights me, and I grow 
Real pale the while I think of those 

Poor little imps below. 

****** 

But come — enough of raillery. 

More soberly I ought 
To treat my subject; so let me 

Give it a serious thought. 

The hell idea has made men mad ; 

But I was pleased indeed 
That Lola took no stock nor had 

E'er shared in such a creed. 

The twinkle in her eye while she 

Bade me delve into this 
Deep subject showed some chaff from me 

Might not be deemed amiss. 



HELL. 233 

There are some things that I somehow 

Am apt to treat sometimes 
In lightsome vein ; but let me now 

Con somewhat graver rhymes. 

Think not I lack in earnestness. 

The subject given me 
Stirs up my strongest feelings : yes, 

I feel its gravity. 

I have a serious side to my 

Composite nature ; so 
From now on in these verses I 

That serious side will show. * 

^F *t* *•* "F ^ T 

The mind that holds to hell is crazed, 

And they who harp thereon 
Insulteth Him who should be praised — 

The Over-ruling One. 

We mortals would, I here maintain, 

(And, pray you, mark me well) 
Become most hopelessly insane 

By a belief in hell. 

Why if ten trillion miles away 

There were a hell, I'd see 
No beauty in this fair spring day : 

'Twould have no charms for me. 

For while beneath the clear bright skies 

On flowered meads I'd stroll, 
I'd hear the curses and the cries 

Of some poor tortured soul. 

My sjmipathy would all go out 

Towards those who writhe in pain : 

I, too, might clench my fist no doubt. 
Unable to restrain 



234 HELL. 

My horror of the monstrous wrong 

Imposed on man : to me 
The thought but makes of prayer and song 

A hollow mockery, 

I know how Hell in years now past 
Was worked for all 'twas worth ; 

I know how its feared terrors cast 
Their shadow on the earth : 

I know all this, and O ! I do 

Rejoice as ne'er before 
'That this old lurid bug-a-boo 
Can blast men's lives no more. 

The world has wiser grown ; the years 
Have brought new truths : we find 

A joy in life when olden fears 
No more disturb the mind. 

Fear never saved a soul, ah no ! 

Man's ingenuity 
Can not devise a hell, I trow. 

That ever will move me. 

But love just gets me every time. 

Love wins where hatred fails. 
Love sweet and wondrous and sublime ; 

Love — love alone — avails. 

How beautiful this world of ours ! 

My heart with joy doth sing: 
I read Love's promise in the flowers 

That crown these days of spring. 



MY CHOICE. 235 

I'll lurk not in the shadows of 

A morbid fancy — nay, 
In the glad light of radiant Love 

I'll live my life alway. 

With Love triumphant, hades' gloom 

Will disappear; and we 
Shall catch a glimpse, this side the tomb, 

Of joys that are to be. 



WE SAINTS. 
Supposed to have been written by a disciple of Jonathan Edwards. 

Let tortured sinners writhe; 

We saints shall all derive 
A joy in gloating over their despair. 

We'll mock their tears, their sighs. 

Their agony, their cries. 
What in hell — nay, what in heaven need we care? 



MY CHOICE. 

There are men who'd prefer in heaven to dwell, 

With some there they detest, 
Rather than be elsewhere a little spell 

With those they love the best. 

I'd rather be on earth with her I love. 

E'en for a little space, 
Than spend eternity in heaven above — 

She absent from that place. 



236 A SOUL. 

A soul (whatever that may be) 

Exists, so some declare, 
Within our bodies, although we 

Can't tell exactly where. 

It may within the heart abide ; 

It might lurk in the brain ; 
Or in the lungs it might reside; 

'Tis hard to ascertain. 

The soul exists at any rate, 

So say these cock-sure men; 
And then they solemnly dilate 

On things beyond our ken. 

That precious thing which none can find 

Is, so they have declared, 
Immortal. " Logic " of this kind 

Could very well be spared. 

I've read the Good Book — read it through: 

I learn therein that we 
Are mortals. 'Tis God only who 

Hath immortality. 



WHY WORRY? 

I care not for power or wealth ; 

Love is better, I think — love and health. 

Of this world I am fond ; 

As for a life beyond — 
Why worry? — 'twill care for itself. 

Life here needs our care : though 'tis sweet 
Yet often, to make both ends meet, 

We must labor and sweat. 

Life hereafter ! Why fret 
And worry o'er it, I repeat. 



THE VAST MAJORITY. 237 

Ah ! ere long 

I among 
That majority vast 

Will be found: 

'Neath a mound 
I shall have rest at last. 



IMMORTALITY. 

" Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 
Was not spoken of the soul." — Longfellow. 

This poem is not an expression of the writer's personal senti- 
ments, but of those disquieting ideas which, he believes, are held 
by all who endorse Longfellow's poetical advocacy of a widely- 
spread theological dogma, though not necessarily a dogma based 
on a proved or a tenable hypothesis. 

To live alway ! to know no rest ! Does not 

The thought appall the mind? Who without fear 

Can contemplate a never-ending lot 

Spent — ah, but where? Alas! we humans here 

In darkness plod along life's toilsome way, 

In doubt we ponder on futurity. 
In the cold tomb, though, our encoffined clay 

Soon shall be placed : then will the soul be free. 

Free? Yes, but O! not privileged to die: 

Not free to choose oblivion: not free 
To seek a grave wherein to haply lie. 

Nay, for the soul such rest is not to be. 



238 HELL AGAIN. 

A last word on the subject. 

Think, think a while what it itnplies- 

Eternal woe ; absurd ! 
It is the worst of all earth's lies, 

And should no more be heard. 



MAN 

OR 

Conditional Immortality. 

Man is a living soul. Immortal ? Nay, 
That gift in heaven he'll gain. 

I'm happy knowing I shall rest for aye 
If heaven I'll not attain. 



SPIRIT SEEKERS. 

Our scientists are able men — 

Sane, shrewd and sensible; but they 

Are credulous, as a rule, when 

From nature's realm they chance to stray. 

I'm not, therefore, impressed at all 
When some of these savants declare 

That we can speak in a dark hall 

With our dead friends whose wraiths are there. 



SPIRITUALISM. 239 

Our rest in the grave is likely to be long and undisturbed ; no man can ever arouse 
us from that sleep of death ; God alone will do this, and He only at the end of time. 
One is led to think thus by reading various passages of Scripture, i Corinthians 15 : 
52, 53 seem to warrant the writer in disapproving, as he does, of spiritualism ; these 
verses read — " In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump ; for the 
trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible." . . . "For this 
corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality." 

The dead from their graves don't stray far ; 

They may hear God's voice, but not man's ; 
" Materializers," therefore, are 

A lot of brazen charlatans. 

These "spiritists" (what nerve they've got!) 

Profess to call men from the tomb 
And trot them out before a lot 

Of poor dupes in a darkened room. 

The Bible, worthy some regard, 

Says not till judgment day shall we 
Be called from graves to meet our God 

And receive immortality. 

The world's worst fakirs are perhaps 

The mediums who claim to hold 
Communion, by means of raps, 

With those who lie in churchyard mold. 

When we are dead are we to be 

Allowed to rest ? Are " mediums ", sir. 

At their " seances ", for a fee. 
To drag us from the sepulchre ? 

But who gives credence to the claims 

Of this low, vile and vulgar herd 
Of cheats? 'Tis strange Professor James 

Gave thought to matter so absurd. 

Yet physicists, so-called, may be 

Gulled with great ease in rooms made dark, 

A female sharp from Italy * 

Found more than one an easy mark. 

This dabbling in " occult " rot 

Appears to weaken a man's brain ; 
Some scientists seem to have got 

By " spirit " studies quite insane. 

* Eusapia Paladino, who befooled a number of Europe's foremost scientists, but 
whose tricks were exposed by investigators in America. 



240 UNHEEDED ADVICE. 

A reply to a friend who in a critique on Hell expressed his dia- 
approbation of the poem's first two divisions. 

You, who have read that piece of mine 

Called Hell, speak rather well of it : 
The last part, you declare, is fine; 

The rest you do not like a bit. 

The — er — yes, technique, so to speak. 

Of the work is, you think, all wrong. 
The first cantos are crude and weak 

And foolish, but the last is strong. 

The wit is strained, ill-timed and coarse 

Which permeates the early part, 
But the last section by its force 

And beauty moves, you say, your heart. 

You tell me to eliminate 

Without undue delay the two 
First cantos ; this, though, let me state, 

I hardly think that I will do. 

There is, as every sane man knows, 

No hell ; how absurd then for me. 
In the last of my three cantos, 

To treat the matter seriously ! 

It is not unbefitting to 

Treat certain themes with levity; 
This I occasionally do. 

Why in the present case blame me? 

I've put in my verse some mild fun 

Which you style coarse; you praise part third 

Where, foolishly, over a non- 
Existing place I am perturbed. 

The fact is I'm somewhat ashamed 

Of that part which has gained your praise. 

A place that now is seldom named 

Should not perturb one's mind these days. 

To excise that part though, or cut 

Out those you mention, seems a shame. 

For your advice I'm thankful, but 
I don't propose to follow same. 



DIETETICS. 241 

A Lenten Thesis. 

Some sad saints (I am not of them) 

Piously es-c\ityf (not chew) 

Certain dishes, though 'tis true 
They may passionately love them. 

Sausage (don't think I'm sardonic) 

Is tabooed on Fridays ; though 

They select, with much gusto, 
Other dainties gastronomic. 

Lobster salad with egg dressing. 

Oysters, fish, clams, pies and cheese, 

Vegetables — yes, all these. 
But no meat ! It is distressing. 

True, indulgences are given 

Certain saints, who in this case 

May eat, after saying grace, 
Meat without offending heaven. 

Yes, for a consideration, 

Any saint who wants to eat 

A choice cut of bovine meat 
May obtain a dispensation. 

Now when I dine in the city. 

E'en on Friday, I eat ham ; 

Though of quail-on-toast I am 
So much fonder, more's the pity. 

Then, too, I like port and sherry, 

And I'm partial to champagne. 

But from these I must abstain 
And drink beer. It's hard — yes, very. 



242 POLITICAL PARSONS. 

Although Fortune is so fickle, 

Yet 'gainst her one should not rail : 
I therefore, eschewing quail, 

Call for beer, ham and a pickle. 

Truly I am an ascetic : 
Yet I really ought to be 
A bon-vivant. Fate to me 

Is ironic. 'Tis pathetic. 

Yet we poels — hem ! — who waken 
Slumbering souls to Beauty's reign, 
Don't, in spiritual disdain. 

Turn from Pickles, Beer and Bacon. 



POLITICAL PARSONS. 

Lines suggested on hearing socialism preached by certain pro- 
fessional revivalists and evangelists in a series of meetings ad- 
vertised as a Religion ( !) Forward Movement conducted by Spir- 
itual Experts. 

Republicans and Democrats, 

And men of other parties, feel 
For those who wear the white cravats 

A veneration very real. 

Yet, while most of us fairly dote 

On churchmen, we don't like them to 

Tell us just how we ought to vote 
And run our business, as they do. 

Men of the cloth, those holy men. 
We all revere ; yet they are, though. 

Very impracticable when 

It comes to business, as we know. 

They should confine themselves to prayers 
And sermons — things they know about. 

Their views anent mundane affairs 
Are almost too bizarre to spout. 



PREACHERS, POLICE AND POLITICS. 243 

The socialism spread by those 

Ecclesiastic gentlemen 
Is nauseous : hence I don't propose 

To go and hear their talks again. 

Let business folks help statesmen steer 
The Ship of State o'er rocks and shoals; 

The clergy then, whom we revere, 
Can tend to our immortal souls. 



PREACHERS, POLICE AND POLITICS. 

They who expound the different creeds, and they 
Who wield the clubs in our bailiwicks. 

Should not (officially, that is to say,) 
Take sides with men embroiled in politics. 

Why should one leave one's beat or why forsake 

One's pulpit so as to electioneer? 
Cops who desert their posts make a mistake; 

Divines who do so err likewise, I fear. 

Let politics alone : 'twere best to tend 

To duty; politics won't suffer then: 
They may get purer : so let preachers spend 

Their time in rescuing poor fallen men. 

Make better citizens of men and they 

Will then support — this cannot be denied — 

The worthiest candidates : 'tis in this way 
That politics will become purified. 

We need our churches and we need our jails. 

Police and preachers, who wage war 'gainst sin, 
Are useful workers. If, when preaching fails. 

Men commit crime, the cops should run them in. 

We must have laws — stern laws; and they must be 
Sternly enforced ; for order must prevail. 

Where free men live there's a necessity 

For priests, police, and the church, and the jail. 



244 MY HEAVEN. 

All those who, by example and precept, 

Teach others to do right we should, of course, 

Highly esteem ; we also should respect 

Those law preservers who are " on the force ". 

Men of the cloth — the black cloth or the blue — 
Should be upheld and honored if they are 

Honest and brave and competent and true, 
As men should be who wear the cross or star. 



MY HEAVEN. 

If I am conscious when to me 

Death draws anear, 
I'll think, not of eternity, 

But you, my dear. 

One in the full possession of 

Sound health may dwell 
In thought upon a heaven above — 

A nether hell. 

A clear, strong mind might speculate 

And form some vague 
Ideas on future love and hate. 

Should such things plague 

A weary, dying man, dear love? 

No, no. Ah! I 
Shall find more comfort thinking of 

You, when I die. 

Here now with you — with you, my dear, 

Life is so fair. 
My heaven is on this earth here, 

Not one elsewhere. 

On Death's approach I need not shrink. 

When from my view 
Life is receding, I shall think 

Of love — and you. 



THOUGHTS. 245 

O life, strange mystery ! 

O death that is to be 
For all who live on this revolving sphere. 

When pondering on these 

Perplexing verities 
The stoutest hearts have quailed from very fear. 

This life upon the earth ! 

Is it — O, is it worth 
The living? Who has not at moments sighed 

For rest ? Ah well, soon we 

Shall with the sleepers be — 
With those who lived, loved, toiled and who have died. 

Does death end all? Is there 

A happy world somewhere — 
One happier than this? Ah yes, it seems 

There must be: and some day 

We who have suffered may 
Gain there those joys we've known at times in dreams. 



MY SPIRIT'S FLIGHT. 

In evening's gathering gloom I sit. 
And, while I think of many things, 

My world- worn spirit seems to flit 
Away from me on eager wings. 

Freed of earth's clay, it wanders far 
Beyond the twilight's crimson skies, 

Reaching at last the golden star 
Whose course encircles Paradise. 



246 DEATH. 

And there it hears the anthems of 
Angelic choristers ; and O ! 

It learns more of true peace and love 
Than souls on earth can ever know. 

The singing ceases: I, alas! 

Awake to life, for from its flight 
My spirit hath returned, to pass — 

With me — into the darksome night. 



DEATH. 



I know that I 

Some day will die ; 
I do not from the thought recoil. 

Eternity ! 

Ah, it for me 
Means rest from life's cares and turmoil. 

What boon more blest 

Is there than rest — 
The rest eternal which is brought 

To every one 

When life is done? 
Whyfore recoil from this sweet thought? 

Death, thou art kind 

And true. How blind 
Are many of us to thy worth. 

We wrong thee so ; 

Thou art no foe, 
But man's best friend upon the earth. 



A PROSPECTIVE RIDE. 247 

A hearse that needs some slight repairs 
Stands, horseless, on a wheelwright's pave; 

Along the city's thoroughfares 
It has borne many to the grave. 

This somber vehicle outside 

The doorway of this noisy shop 
May be the one in which I'll ride 

When from life's serried ranks I drop, 

A ride! The prospect pleases me. 

Why not? But it may be unmeet 
To muse thus by a factory 

Upon a crowded, busy street. 



SURE THINGS. 

Love is sweet, but who is sure 
It will to the end endure? 

Friendship — O, how blest ! But do 
Friends not sometimes prove untrue? 

Faith — a state of mind, oft found 
Based on shifting, crumbling ground. 

Hope — ah ! we but have in her 
A deceiving comforter. 

Charity, Hood doth declare, 
Is in Christendom most rare. 

Fame. Alas ! the favor of 

The world's as shortlived as love. 

Wealth, so we are told, hath wings. 
What, then, are the certain things? 

Death and Taxes — don't you know? — 
Are the sure things here below. 



248 FAITH. 

I've seen poor, lifeless clay- 
Laid mournfully away 

In God's green acre, and the tears have come 
Into my eyes; although 
Somewhere there is, I know, 

For all of us a bright eternal home. 

Glad are those moments when 

That world beyond our ken 
Is miraged on the cloudless summer skies. 

What solace and what cheer 

We weary ones find here 
When such fair visions greet our yearning eyes. 

" O, death, where is thy sting? " 

Thou canst no terror bring 
To trustful souls. Hearing the earth-clods fall 

On coffins may bring fear 

To doubting mortals here, 
But not to those whom faith sustains through all. 



ELEGIAC LINES. 

I strolled in a cemetery 
Not long since, and I was very 
Much impressed by what I saw there. I found comfort, yes, and 
cheer 
'Mongst the graves. Ah ! there were many ; 
And methought if there were any 
Peace on earth that one who wished it might some day attain it 
here. 

It is comforting and cheering 

To know that a day is nearing 
When I, too, shall gain a rest as peaceful as is that of those 

Who are in their graves a-lying. 

Yes, I shall be occupying 
One ere long, for my life's journey happily is near its close. 



DESPONDENCY. 249 

I peer into the future, but in vain; 

No sign nor semblance of a clue I gain 

On which to base a hope of happier days. 

The spirit in me falters as I gaze 

Out on the night: no star in heaven appears: 

My heart and mind are overwhelmed with fears. 

A spectre looms amid the mists that shroud 

The night : he looks on me and laughs aloud : 

His wild, reverberating laughter chills 

The blood that courses through my veins, and fills 

My stricken, shuddering soul with awe. I feel 

The nearness of an evil, vague yet real. 

I grovel in the dank slough of despond, 

No hopes in this world nor for the beyond. 

Lost, lost ! Aye, lost : destined for hades' gloom. 

E'en now my brain throbs at th' approaching doom. 

Grief gnaws my soul. Too soon, too soon I'll sink 

A dying wretch beside the grave's dread brink. 



DEAD FRIENDS. 

It matters not who dies, those who 
Remain behind awhile must do 

The work which yet 
Is left unfinished : we must be 
Regardful of ourselves, though we 

The dead forget. 

The dead ! We have no time to grieve : 
There's gold to gain, fame to achieve. 

Life so soon ends ! 
He is unwise who in this brief 
Existence wastes his time in grief 

Over dead friends. 



250 A PUZZLED WILL. 

" To be or not to be, that is the question." — Shakespeare. 

I have a longing — 'tis for rest, 

And with a bodkin bare 
I might the object of my quest 

Obtain, if I but dare. 

Yet somehow I'm afraid to try 

The cold steel's sudden thrust. 
I, cowed by conscience, fear to lie 

Embedded in earth's crust. 

I dread to live ; but O ! death seems 

A still more awful thing. 
Life's ills I'll bear. I fear the dreams 

Death's sleep to me may bring. 



LIFE. 



Why do we men and women strive 
So hard here in this vale of tears, 
Through all the passing toil-nlled years, 

To keep (is it worth while) alive? 

Wealth, love, perchance the bubble fame 
Allures us ; yet one might possess 
All these, and know not happiness. 

We must, perforce, though, play the game. 

One thing, its shortness, should commend 
The game to us. Ah ! let us then, 
Us players — children, women, men — 

Play on, play on until the end. 



REST. 251 

Give me that rest which knows 

No wakening. Let those 
Who vaguely dream of life beyond the grave 

Gain their fair dreamings ; when 

I leave the world, ah ! then 
An undisturbed and endless rest I crave. 

When I am dead may no 

One, whether high or low, 
Saint, sinner, god or demon, interfere 

With my sleep. Why destroy 

My long desired joy — 
Rest : of all blessings that which is most dear. 

The world is fair, and yet 

For all the jewels set 
In Heaven's diadem I'd not retrace 

My steps on life's road. No, 

I would not wish to go 
Back and restart upon life's long, stern race. 

Rest for my spirit — rest 

For heart and mind and breast. 
To be as though j'ou were not. O ! give me 

That perfect rest — that deep. 

Profound, calm, peaceful sleep 
Through all, ah, yes ! through all eternity. 

I am so tired ; yes, 

And, look you, happiness 
Here or elsewhere is yet not rest ; and for 

That boon I long — surcease 

Of life's cares, for that peace, 
That rest complete when one shall be no more. 



THIS LIFE. 

This life seems the happiest when 
We are young ; we enjoy it most then. 

Yes, life's worth living — once. 

But who would, save a dunce. 
Want to live it all over again ? 



252 HUMAN FORTITUDE. 

This battle for existence ought 
To those who must participate 
Therein, and war 'gainst adverse fate, 

Prove — well, a most absorbing sport. 

How few there are who want to die. 
Even the very oldest cling 
To life; it seems to most a thing 

That is worth valuing — but why? 

We struggle on. What for? Who knows? 

The blind and halt on dark ways grope ; 

And many, many, without hope. 
Bear uncomplainingly earth's woes. 

Some dread life more than death, and seek 
Their rest before the day is done — 
Their rest ere it is fairly won. 

Few, very few, though, are so weak. 

For one faint heart a million brave 
And valiant souls face fearlessly 
This life and that eternity 

Beyond the confines of the grave. 



BENEVOLENCE. 

O the warm and hearty grip ! 

O the smile upon the lip ! 
The cheering word, the kindly beaming eye. 

The religion which doth bring 

Such blest fruit to blossoming 
Is one that had its origin on high. 



DISSIMULATION. 253 

Smiles and brave words from him, the while 
His sorrow-burdened spirit cries 
For rest — for rest that Fate denies; 

Yet his face wears a cheering smile. 

Smiles, aye! and laughter too,. and they — 
His fellow men, his friends — those who 
Know or believe they know him, do 

Not deem him otherwise than gay. 

This bold front kept up through the years ! 

Is there not pathos in the bluff? 

O hollow pretense! 'Tis enough 
To move — yes, e'en the gods to tears. 



GOD'S CHILDREN. 

By merit we may hope to win 

Our Father's favor while on earth. 

'Tis not the color of man's skin 

That counts with God : it is man's worth. 

The prejudice, the hate, the strife 
Among the races — should it be? 

Why can we not in this brief life 
Together dwell in unity? 

Brown, red and yellow, white and black, 
We are the sons and daughters of 

One God : and yet how much we lack 
Of brotherly regard and love. 



254 LINES. 

In Reply to Ella Wheeler Wilcox's, " A Query." 

It matters not if one's a Jew, 

A Buddhist, skeptic or Gentile. 
If he acts rightly and is true 

To his own self, God then will smile 
Approvingly upon him. Yes, 

The conscience is a truer guide 
Than creeds and sects. The poetess 

Is right. How many men have died 
Unhappy, dreadful deaths, because 

Of having 'mid the world's mad strife 
Broken, alas ! some churchly laws 

For which a God in some new life 
Shall smite and punish them. Is He 

So cruel ? O ! how few men know 
That God is love. There cannot be 

A future life of endless woe. 



THE DEAD. 

" Pray for his soul " — This strange request 
I read once on a sign beside 
A church ; but the dead are at rest, 

Why pray, then, for men who have died? 

Dead souls or dead men. The Book shows. 
Know nothing : needless are the prayers 

So often made for their repose. 

The dead ! Ah ! God's great peace is theirs. 

I now would hate, yes, hate to feel 

That, after I have passed away. 
Some one, though meaning well, would kneel 

And for my rest and comfort pray. 



A DIVINITY. 255 

{Respectfully dedicated to W. E. Henley.) 

" There's a divinity that shapes our ends, 
Rough-hew them how we will." — Shakespeare. 

" I am the master of my fate " — a most 

Audacious vaunting, Henley. Who is he 
Who can unaided breast life's storms? Your boast 
Smacks of irreverence to gods that be. 

Weak, puny man ! What, he the captain of 
A soul of which Fate wantonly makes sport! 

Upon our little earthly hills we love 
To crow, but ah ! it signifieth nought. 

Prescribed has been the course of every star; 

The universe is ruled by law. Would we 
Accomplish what we do unless we are 

Helped in some way by a divinity? 



LIFE'S BATTLE. 

Inherited defects and habits — these 

Influence us; environment also, 
And early training shape our destinies; 

Against our will they drive us to and fro. 

Unless help comes the strongest spirits must 
Yield to these forces; yet men think it shows 

A weakness to seek aid of Him — the just 

And only God, whose heart with love o'erflows. 



256 JEWELRY. 

" On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 
Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore." — Pope. 

Personal bedizenment, 

Since earth greeted Eve's advent, 

Has been femininity's 

Chief joy through the centuries. 

With a zest untiring 

Woman glories in this thing. 

Is it wrong? Ah! who may judge? 

Who of earth's sons would begrudge 

Even the minutest gem 

In a woman's diadem? 

Once the sterner portion of 

Humankind evinced a love 

For adornment ; once the strong 

And the brave thought it no wrong 

To bedeck with gilded charms 

Their necks, breasts, ears, hands and arms ; 

Thus arrayed men trod life's ways 

Proudly in primeval days. 

Time brings changes ; man adores 

No more these once prized gewgaws ; 

He renounces all such things — 

All save studs, pins, chains and rings. 

He who to old customs clings 

On his fingers may place rings, 

Or upon his shirt front wear 

Brilliant studs that flash and glare ; 

Or he might, if he thinks best, 

Hang a chain across his vest ; 

Or display, 'twould be no sin. 

On his tie a diamond pin. 

But these days man should not try 

To exploit those things that lie 

In a woman's realm. Who dares 

Covet any gem she wears? 

The world's gorgeous finery 

Looks best on a woman ; she, 



A GEM, 257 

As men happily have found, 

Should with brightest gems be crowned ; 

It were meet that she should deck 

Her ears, waist, wrists, head, arms, neck, 

With earth's rarest jewels ; these 

Decorative vanities 

Are for her alone ; 'tis clear 

Man's renunciation here 

Shows the sturdy fibre of 

His strong nature. Woman's love 

For bedazzling trinketry 

Is too great a love to be 

Overcome ; hence then the fair. 

Not the brave, earth's gems should wear. 

Woman should — yes, should alone 

Wear the necklace, bracelet, zone, 

The tiara and the clear 

Sparkling pendant on the ear ; 

And the brooch ah ! that should rest 

Only on a woman's breast. 

A brooch is a priceless thing 

When it thus lies fluttering 

On a bosom fair ; the brave, 

Who behold it, may then rave. 

And in ecstasy enthuse 

O'er a gem's prismatic hues. 

Yes, while the brooch flutters there, 

Men — all men — may breathe a prayer. 



A GEM. 

One cannot at a single bound 
Attain paradise, as I've found. 

This thought is a gem : 

It has, yes, a-hem ! 
A real Tennysonian sound. 



258 JEWELS. 

Shining jewels of great worth 

Deck the daughters of the earth. 

Yet not only are the fair 

Thus adorned with gems most rare, 

But some men appear to be 

Just as fond of jewelry ; 

Diamond studs and golden bands 

Glitter on their shirts and hands. 

'Tis a pleasure to behold 

Priceless stones well set in gold. 

When those stones, so rich and rare, 

Sparkle on a woman fair 

Our pleasure is increased 

A full hundredfold at least. 

Earrings, bracelets, brooches, rings. 

Chains, tiaras — all such things 

Look well on young maids, but these 

Feminine necessities 

Are not meant for men ; the fair. 

Not the brave, such things should wear. 

For the pearls that women love 

Let men search the dank beds of 

Distant seas ; let men go down 

Into mines for stones to crown 

Womankind. Yes, let man's brow 

Sweat for woman's joy. Ah ! thou 

Art, O woman, the world's pride ; 

Nought to thee can be denied. 

Yet of greater worth by far 

Than such glistening baubles are 

Other jewels — those that shine 

With a radiance divine ; 

And those jewels, though so rare, 

Men, all men on earth may wear. 

They're the jewels God hath sent — 

Truth, peace, love and sweet content. 

Truth, peace, love, contentment — yes, 

Bring the truest happiness. 

How can men and women find 

These blest jewels of the mind? 

Search aright and everywhere 



JEWELS. 259 

May be found these jewels rare. 

Oft on lonely mountain peaks. 

Far from the world's crowds, one seeks 

Peace and happiness and rest; 

Vain, however, is the quest. 

Living from the world apart 

Chills life's current in the heart. 

'Tis not on some fairy isle 

Brightened by a sea nymph's smile. 

Nor in quiet valleys where 

Nature seems most kind and fair, 

Nor in cloisters where the sound 

Of the rude world's woes is drowned. 

Nor beside the margin of 

A calm lake that peace and love 

Are more likely to be gained. 

No, God's jewels an- obtained 

Everywhere ; one need not roam 

O'er the sea, afar from home, 

For these blessings ; one may win 

Them amid the city's din, 

Working in the ranks of men, 

With the pick, the spade, the pen. 

If one did but rightly look 

In the cities one forsook, 

One might at his very door 

Have found these things he sought for — 

Have found peace. Peace. O ! what bliss 

'Tis to have a gem like this. 

All who live and act aright 

May secure this jewel bright 

And be rich ; ah ! richer than 

Any scoffer ever can. 

Live and act aright. A clear 

Conscience makes this life so dear. 

Serving God and helping man 

Is the best, the only plan 

For mankind to gain and hold 

Gems of greater worth than gold. 

Scoffers at things sacred ne'er 

Find on earth these jewels rare. 



260 THE MUSIC OF OTHER DAYS. 

My soul has been haunted ever — 
Strangely haunted through the years 
By the music of the spheres, 

Heard when God's stars sang together. 

O that morning so auspicious 

When my soul on free wings soared, 
Thrilled then by Love's now lost chord ! 

O that music so delicious ! 

Shall I hear those voices blending 

In love's anthem e'er again? 

Yes, I know I'll hear them when 
My life's little day is ending. 

Then those sweet, faint strains that haunted 
Me on earth I'll clearly hear: 
Then shall I, as death draws near. 

Face eternity undaunted. 



WITH NATURE. 

When care oppressed I flee 

The haunts of men to be 
With nature : to commune in some fair spot 

With her uplifts the soul 

Beyond the earth's control 
Into a world where sorrow enters not. 

To worship Nature is 

To worship God, I wis. 
At Nature's altar I, a devotee, 

This blessed truth have felt 

The while in prayer I knelt 
And peace ineffable stole over me. 



OUTSIDE THE GATES. 26) 

O ! can it be that power so commanding, 

Which has the world ruled through all ages past, 

A power as yet beyond man's understanding, 
Is to illume my checkered life at last ? 

Am I earth's happiest knowledge to acquire? 

Am I to quaff fair pleasure's draught divine? 
To feel from now on that life's aims are higher? 

Are nobler aspirations to be mine? 

Am I in clearer tones to sing a newer 

And grander melody than e'er before? 
To know a deeper truth ? To gain a truer 

And larger idea of love's mystic lore? 

Nay, I am not to know now nor hereafter 
The largess of love's bounty ; but outside 

The gates I'll hear, perchance, the happy laughter 
Of those who taste the joys I am denied. 

So let it be. Yet there a comfort thinking 
That one familiar voice I'll sometimes hear 

In song or laugh : 'twill keep my heart from sinking 
When heaven by that voice is brought more near. 



LILIES. 



Blooming in all their wondrous beauty now 
Under the cloudless skies, the lilies fair 
Reveal God's goodness : yes, we learn somehow 
The meaning of the flowers, and a prayer 
Of thankfulness for these new proofs of love 
Now from our hearts goes out to Him above. 



262 NEARING THE END. 

Never, never again 

Shall I the Muse command. 

The pen — the rhyming pen — 
Has fallen from my hand. 

I feel that I am near 

My end. From earth's scenes I 
Will shortly disappear. 

Will men weep when I die? 

Hardly. Who weeps? Not men. 

Yet some there are who may 
Miss me a little when 

From life I've passed away. 



LOVE OR FEAR. 

Is it the love of life or fear 

Of death which causes us to take 

A strangle hold on this life here — 
A hold that seems so hard to break? 

We cling to life tenaciously, 

At least most of us do — but why? 

Do we so love it? Or do we 
Fear — actually fear to die? 



LIVING AGAIN. 

Death, though he knocks us mortals out 

So easily, is not, we know, 
Invincible; there'll come a bout 

In which he'll find himself laid low. 

Laid low forever — then, ah! then 

We who faced him and fell may rise 

From earth's cold lap, to live again : 
Again, again, beyond the skies! 



SEEMS QUEER. 263 

There'll come a time — and this to me seems queer — 

When I among the living shall not be ; 
That time perhaps is very, very near. 

To leave earth's scenes seems — yes, seems queer to me. 

There are occasions, such as now, when I 

Like, really like to dwell on the idea 
Of passing from the present life; to my 

Mind, though, this, as I would repeat, seems queer. 

'Tis said our souls, when liberated, wing 

Their flight somewhere the while, in graveyards here, 
Our bodies mould. Death is a common thing. 

And yet to live no more seems — yes, seems queer. 

To die ! I contemplate, let me confess, 

Man's debt to nature with — well, with no fear. 

To lie, however, cold and motionless 

Does, as 1 would again remark, seem queer. 



LIFE'S UNCERTAINTY. 

If some grave soothsayer declared 
He could foretell just when I'd die, 

He would not have me greatly scared, 
For I would know he did but lie. 

Still should some sage state solemnly 
That 1 would die this very night, 

Why question his veracity? 
Might he not prophesy aright? 

I may, of course, die before night. 

Or I — who knows? — may live for years. 

In either case, though, 'twere but right 
To be prepared when death appears. 



264 IF I WERE TOLD. 

If I were told by some one who 

Would know (yet who could know?) that I 
Had two days more to live — just two. 

What would I do before I die ? 

Would I be frightened as my end 

Drew near? Would I in terror throw 

Myself on quaking knees, and spend 
Those two days thus? I don't think so. 

Yet might I not? Death is, in fact, 
A dreadful thought on which to dwell. 

What I shall do, how I shall act 
When facing death, I can not tell. 

My courage, now so great, might fail 
Me when my time comes. Why assume 

I would be brave ? My soul might quail 
Within the shadow of the tomb. 

And yet the thought of death, I find, 

Is not unpleasing — not a bit ; 
Though I'm not morbidly inclined, 

I like at times to dwell on it. 

Against stern Fate I have no grouch. 

My grave I shall approach " like one 
Who wraps the drapery of his couch 

'Bout him, and lies down " — when day's done. 



SHALL WE E'ER KNOW? 

Life is — but ah! who knows? To try 
To solve the problem would be vain ; 

When I the secret find then I — 
No, in the grave who can explain? 

The very wisest man can throw 

But little light on things like these — 

On life, death, love. Shall we e'er know 
All, all about such mysteries? 



MY FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY. 265 

I would that I had lived — well, say 

One hundred years ago; 
For if I had, I would today 

Be happier, I know. 

But I am fifty now, and in 

A hundred years — aye, less 
Than half that time perhaps I'll win 

My right to happiness. 

Yes, I am fifty, and therefore 

I have no cause to be 
Unhappy. My life will be o'er 

Soon in this century. 

The joy of peace ! the joy of rest ! 

These are the joys I crave ; 
And I shall find them in that blest 

And deep sleep in the grave. 



ENCOURAGEMENT. 

In the far future there may be 

A wondrous world wherein we weak 

Work-weary wights will win what we 
In the life here so vainly seek. 

This thought is most encouraging. 

One might despair if it were not 
For those thoughts that cause us to sing 

And be contented with our lot. 



WHY WAIT? 

They say " it's ne'er too late to mend." 
But why wait until near life's end 

Before we behave? 

We're now nearer the grave 
Than we're apt to think, my dear friend. 



266 RIGHT LIVING. 

When one's honest and means well — yes, when 
One is true and sincere and has got 

A bright cheerful nature, ah! then 

The world's dogmas and creeds matter not. 

Why waste time in exploiting beliefs 

That are mystic and weird and unsound ? 

In grappling with the world's griefs 
Character's the best staff to be found. 

The surest support in one's need 
Is to feel that one has acted right. 

When heavily leant on, a creed 

Oft snaps — then most sad is one's plight. 

The dead are at rest — it is we 
'■ That live who must suffer and fight ; 

And yet no one of us need be 
Discouraged if he but acts right. 



NO MORE OF DEATH. 

No more of death ! I mean no more 
Thoughts on the subject for a while. 

I should choose things best fitted for 
My readers — things to make them smile. 

I'd like to make men laugh until 
They all were fairly out of breath. 

To do so, though, I no doubt will 

Have to choose themes less sad than death. 

Yet oft when I on death dilate. 

My dirges and my elegies 
Seem to excite, I grieve to state. 

Some reader's risibilities. 



INDIVIDUALISM VERSUS SOCIALISM. 267 

Men, some men, of a certain trend of mind. 
Are, so they tell us, much concerned about 
Social conditions ; these men would blot out 
From our statute-books those laws they find 
[O ! no, they have no common axe to grind !] 

Which safeguard individual rights. They spout 
Their sophistries upon the street, while stout 
Sons of true labor, those of thriftier kind. 
Work on with faith in God and faith also 
In our dear country's institutions. These 
Real workers in the shops, mines, factories. 
At desks, at looms, at forges, harbor no 
Envy of others; free through life they go. 
Thankful for all its possibilities. 



MODERN RELIGIOUS CULTS. 

{Respectfully dedicated to that large and irresponsible body of 
self-constituted preceptors in advanced spiritual theorizing.) 

"New Thought", "Man's Brotherhood"— such phrases fill 

The mouths of ideologists these days. 

" The Brotherhood of Man " — a sounding phrase. 
Implying, as it does, love and good will 
Among earth's dwellers. Whose heart does not thrill 

At the fair prospect ! Worthy of all praise 

Are those who with a rightful purpose blaze 
A new way towards life's dazzling svunmits ; still 
Should we forsake the beaten pathways? Ought 

We follow these late day evangels so 

Confidingly and blindly? Do they know 
More than the olden prophets? This " New Thought" 
May fail us in the battle being fought ; 

The ancient faiths the truer way may show. 



268 THE WICKED WORLD. 

Men, generally speaking, are vile ; 

The world teems with greed, graft and guile ; 
Notwithstanding its sin, 
Though, it's worth living in. 

I don't care to die yet awhile. 

Of course I'm appalled oftentimes 
By outbreaks of violent crimes. 

Is the fault mine? Not quite. 

People will sin in spite 
Of all my best efforts and — rhymes. 

A helplessness in this regard 
Need, however, not worry a bard. 

When a Tolstoy fails to 

Reform the world, who 
Could expect one like me to try hard. 

Why not be light-hearted and gay? 
So long as griefs come not my way, 

I'll on life's primrose path 

Stroll along with a laugh. 
I mean to enjoy life's brief day. 

Am I selfish ? Ah ! well, some who read 
'Tween these lines may find a heart can bleed 

For the woes of mankind. 

Yes, a poor rhj^mster's mind 
May feel for the race in its need. 

The fact is that in this life few 
Can parry Fate's cuffings ; but who 

Is called on to assume 

A demeanor of gloom? 
Laugh. Yes. What good does wailing do? 

A wealthy patrician may don 

The coarse cotton garb of a son 
Of toil ; and may pose 
On the fields in such clothes. 

But what good by such stunts can be won? 

The point I would make in this case 
Is that no one can ever efface 

By methods bizarre 

The vices that are 
Ingrained in the woof of our race. 



DUTY'S CALL. 269 

Ah ! when a poet hears the clear 

And thrilling voice of conscience he 

Should cast aside unworthy fear, 

And in Truth's cause fight valiantly. 

The world at first may scout him, but 

In time his fight with it he'll win ; 
Yes, he'll uplift it from the rut 

It has unconsciously been in. 

The songs of an inspired bard 

Re-echoing among the spheres 
Will win the world ; though long and hard 

The siege may be, yet Truth's day nears. 

A poet with a message, then, 

Should give it to the world ; it may 
Not absolutely please all men. 

But Duty's call bards must obey. 



SOME DAY I'LL KNOW. 

If I have ever penned a line 

(Which, possibly, I might have done) 
That brought some sparkle of sunshine 

Into the life of any one. 

Then, then — yes then the angel who 
Records our earthly doings may 

Have noticed it, and placed it to 

My credit. This I'll know some day. 



270 CONCERNING CREATION. 

A CORRESPONDENT'S CONTRIBUTION 
TO CONTROVERSIAL COLUMNS. 

In days remote some mist)' matter, then in space a-sailing, 
Was drawn together in a gaseous globe which through the clear 

Empyrean revolved, but God's or nature's law prevailing, 
The heated mass became in time a habitable sphere. 

Earth's fires through the ages cooled, the vaporous steam emitted 
Descended in torrential rains, the mists to water turned ; 

Then finally the solid land appeared and earth was fitted 

For life — fish first, then birds, then beasts, then man, as we 
have learned. 

The Rev'rend Henry Losch, as " Critic " says, is a true poet ; 

As a Bible exegetist, though, he's apt to err, I fear. 
The waters, so states Genesis (strange that Losch doesn't know it) 

Covered all of earth long, long before the dry land did appear. 

The nebular hypothesis by Doctor Losch is scouted ; 

Yet this doctrine of creation in no manner removes God 
From the fair world we live in ; no sane man has ever doubted 

That He made it ; we believe this as well as the Reverend Bard. 

While I can't accept friend Losch's scientific theorizing, 

Yet, like " Critic," I must praise him for the daring way he 
soars 

In proud Poesy's dominions ; yes, it is indeed surprising 

How complacently he disregards convention's irksome laws. 

It is only the Walt Whitmans and the Losches and such mortals 
(Ah! I should say such immortals) who can all the rules ignore; 

We poor earth-bound versifiers stand awestricken at the portals 
Watching these intrepid, fate-defying aviators soar. 



FORGIVENESS. 

Forgiveness, though good, yet spreads sin ; 
It encourages grafters : men in 

Public service would be 

More pure, probably. 
If forgiveness were harder to win. 



PROSELYTING. 271 

I sometimes think it well that we 

Differ in our opinions so. 
If all men thought alike would the 

World then be better? I say no. 

If in religion, say, men were 

Of one mind and all of one cult, 
The State subservient to her — 

The Church — what would be the result? 

Perhaps not progress; why try then 

Converting the world to our own 
Peculiar sect views? Let men 

Think for themselves; let them alone. 

Help them, of course, when help they need, 
But don't dethrone the Gods of their 

Adoption, nor impose a creed 

On them for which they may not care. 

Be tolerant; although we might 

Deem ours the only proper sect, 
Yet other sectists have a right 

To their views, which we should respect. 

The safety, it seems to me. 

Of the creed which we hold so dear 
Lies in the multiplicity 

Of differing faiths on this earth here. 

A wholesome check they exercise 

On one another's temporal bent; 
Hence none of them dare aggrandize 

Itself to the world's detriment. 

Which of the creeds is really best 

Depends upon the point of view ; 
Each one no doubt can stand the test 

Its votaries subject it to. 



272 PROSELYTING. 

I speak with deep respect of each 

And every creed ; but, after all, 
The things we do, not forms we teach, 

Count most and fit us for Death's call. 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Perhaps some one might smile who reads 
These lines; unconsciously I may 

Have dogmatized upon the creeds. 
My feelings carried me away. 

But one's views of old creeds don't cause 
111 feeling these days; men are more 

Tolerant now, and " holy " wars 
Are happily forever o'er. 

Men are, so I find, better than 

Some of the creeds to which they hold. 

A man loves now his brother man 
More truly than in days of old. 

Surely no gentle reader need 

Take vimbrage at the thoughts I've penned. 
If I seemed to impugn a creed, 

To those who hold it I'm a friend. 

Life — let me say this — is so short 
And so uncertain ; should not we 

Strive here to make, I think we ought, 
Ourselves fit for eternity? 

I've made some friends, perhaps some foes, 
In life. Life! Mine will soon be done; 

I'm glad to feel now, near its close. 
So kindly, yes, towards every one. 



SECT ENTHUSIASTS. 273 

Certain opinions I've expressed 

In verse form may be wrong, but then 

Should I refrain from rhyming lest 
What I may say offend some men? 

On morals, on philosophy, 

On politics, religion too, 
I am not an authority; 

Yet I at times these things review. 

Some call me bold, others accuse 

Me of schismatic scheming; yes, 
They tell me to abjure the Muse; 

My poor mild rhymes they would suppress. 

I have been told, in point of fact, 

That my views are unorthodox, 
And that if I'm not more exact 

I'll founder some day on Time's rocks. 

But on life's seas each one must guide 

His barque as seemeth right and well. 
Is mine to " founder " or to ride 

The billows safely? Who can tell? 

I hold one cannot go astray 

Who (this remark, though, may seem trite) 
Tries sedulously to obey 

The voice of conscience. Am I right? 

I may be wrong; to win divine 

Preferment, it is said, one needs 
More copious rituals than mine, 

And also more elaborate creeds. 

My doxy's not the one held by 

My censors; so they (is this square?) 
Charge me with heterodoxy. I 

Believe the charge to be unfair. 



274 SECT ENTHUSIASTS. 

A simple faith accompanied by 

Good deeds avails not. God delights 

In certain dogmas, cut and dry, 
And forms, and ceremonial rites. 

Such things do not appeal to me ; 

Hence my poor soul, so some declare, 
Will not be saved — which, certainly. 

Is quite a serious affair. 

Those mighty tweedles — dum and Qi.. — 

I cannot differentiate. 
Let experts in theology 

On matters great as these dilate. 

I would a quiet life pursue, 

Free from ecclesiastic scraps 
O'er doctrines strange and weird, that few 

Or none can understand perhaps. 

Ghostly conception ! Trinity ! 

Three Gods — yet one! An, vhat's the use? 
These studies are too deep for m^.. 

Or else it is I'm too obtuse. 

At times it's interesting to 

Discuss these doctrines con and pro ; 

We can't all be convinced they're true. 
For men, as we know, differ so. 

Let no one in his fervor, though, 

Become intolerant and feel 
Himself called on to damn his foe ; 

This I would style mistaken zeal. 

Who fears anathemas? To scold 

And damn men does not change their views. 

Those stronger means employed of old — 
The rack and stake — we may not use. 

I do not speak in rancor here 

Of sect enthusiasts ; I would 
Merely observe no one need fear 

The future who tries to be good. 



BEATIFICATION RITES. 275 

Those who discover and spread truths are no 

More jailed and racked and burnt. The Church and State 

Are in most lands dissevered ; men of late 
Have become free; the fires that burnt Bruno 
And other martyrs have long ceased to glow. 

No state again dare lend its power and weight 

To sects that would revive a smouldering hate. 
Upon poor Joan of Arc we now bestow 
A tardy, empty honor ! Should not we 

Also beatify brave Bruno, who 

Likewise was murdered? No, those whom we slew 
And tortured in the past should be left free 
To rest. Peace to their honored memory. 

What good now can our petty church-rites do? 



NO JOKE. 

Is life a joke? Well, hardly so. 

Are they who laugh and they who jest 
The happiest? Not always. No, 

Griefs come to them as to the rest. 

The peasant, pauper, millionaire, 
The soldier, statesman, lover, thief. 

The upright man — none's free from care ; 
All who have lived have known grief. 

If life's a tragedy — then what? 

We may therein an interest take, 
And weep at times — laugh too. Why not, 

Ere we therefrom our exit make? 



276 THE HIGHER CRITICISM. 

Critics can never undermine 

Or shake a right belief. Why fear 

To have them study that divine 

Book which all worthy men hold dear? 

Let those who wish, investigate 
The Holy Bible. Ah ! I know 

The truths therein are far too great 
For any one to overthrow. 

But no one means, of this I'm sure, 

To chill our faith. That faith, at best, 

Is very frail and insecure 

Which cannot weather every test. 

Scholars familiar with the Greek, 
Hebrew and Latin tongues may be 

Entrusted, so I think, to seek 

For more light on life's mystery. 

My plummet is too short to sound 

The depths of this strange Book, and I 

Upon those students of profound 
Learning and knowledge must rely. 

I welcome, then, (why should I dread?) 
Those who expose the errors of 

Old and false teaching, and who shed 

New light on God's truths and God's love. 



TOLERATION. 

A necessary plea for a most gracious quality, which is not as 
all-pervading among mankind as it should be in this enlightened 
twentieth century. 

To men unbiased, those whose free 
Minds are by no traditions swayed. 

We might be kinder. Why should we 
Of these truth-seekers be afraid? 



DIVORCE. 277 

A woman should forever and a day- 
Be true to him to whom, when she is wed, 

She vows to love and honor and obey 
Until the man or she herself is dead. 

But (yes, there is a But with a big B) 

When the man treats her ill, neglects her — when 

He lives with other women, drinks, when he — 
Drunken or sober — beats her, then — what then? 

Then, then, yes, then she should not live a day, 
Much less forever, with this worst of brutes. 

Divorce him; 'twould be criminal to stay 

With him and breath the air which he pollutes. 



MAN'S PART. 

When wives act wrongly (which, of course, few do) 
When love illicit lures them, when they drink, 

And otherwise transgress, the husbands who 
Divorce them act ungallantly, I think. 

Women are weak but men are — ah ! well, strong 
Enough to keep the marriage vows they make. 

Whate'er the provocation or the wrong, 
It were unmanly wedlock's bonds to break. 

Man should protect the woman who is weak: 
Condone her sins; yes, if a wife should err, 

A true man should not murmur, should not seek 
Divorce : he still should cherish, still love her. 

ENVOY. 

Ah ! why suppose that through the lines above 
There runs a vein of satire? Am I 

Not able to cognize that higher love 

Which some men feel — a love that cannot die? 



273 ACHIEVING GREATNESS. 

I'll make a man of straw and when 
I've done so I'll at once proceed 

To knock him out ; the world may then 
Think I have done a valiant deed. 

By such slick means one easily 
Achieves success ; a man who hopes 

For fame will win it soon if he 
Rightly manipulates the ropes. 

Yes, mediocre men may score — 

I've known it done — success and fame 

By setting up a man of straw 

And boldly knocking out the same. 



LIFE'S WAYS. 

Whene'er before me there lie two 

Diverging courses I, it seems, 
Know not which one I should pursue; 

I can't decide between extremes. 

Still when before me two paths loom 

Portentously, I need not care 
Which one I choose; I'll reach the tomb 

By either path — all paths lead there. 

True, at a grave all life-roads end; 

Nevertheless, before we rest 
From our wanderings, let us wend 

The ways that seem to us the best. 

The best, the best — not those that we 
Find easiest, but those pathways 

Duty points out; although they be 

The roughest, we'll walk them these days. 



TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF. 279 

It matters not, some say, how we 

Conduct ourselves now and behave. 
For in less than a century 

Each of us will be in his grave. 

These sophists overlook some facts. 

For instance, what is done and said 
By us whilst here — our words and acts — 

May bear fruit after we are dead. 

We should, on learning this, commence 

To turn over a newer leaf. 
Or else our acts might, centuries hence, 

Bring some poor struggling soul to grief. 

Ah ! by our wrongful conduct we 

May suffer too — sometime ! To earn 
True joy through all eternity 

We should, then, a new leaf o'erturn. 



SOWING AND REAPING. 

An effect follows a cause ; 

None disputes this, hence if we 
Transgress one of nature's laws, 

We must pay the penalty. 

If we sow wild oats in youth 
We in later years shall find 

Sad results therefrom : this truth 
"Twould be well to bear in mind. 

We may, on the other hand. 
Act [for cause precedes effect] 

In youth so as to command 
Later on the world's respect. 

We may make the deserts glow 
With rare verdure if — but I'm 

Getting tiresome, and so 

I must stop this prosy rhyme. 



280 CONVERSIONS. 

Professional revivalists 

Point, with a pardonable pride, 

To many new names on their lists 
Of the elect and sanctified. 

How quickly made are most converts ! 

Does reason sway them? Who may tell? 
Perhaps an exhorter exerts 

O'er some men a hypnotic spell. 

It has been said that reformed rakes 
Make the best husbands ; a girl, though, 

Who weds one of them surely takes 
A great risk — at least, I think so. 

Converted sinners oft " backslide " ; 

Although helped by some power divine, 
They lack, this cannot be denied, 

The strength to walk on a straight line. 

I must admit that my belief 

In these "conversions" is not strong; 

A " redeemed " crook or " reclaimed " thief 
Cannot, I think, remain good long. 

One whose delinquencies were less — 
A reformed debauchee — may be 

Best trusted ; a girl's happiness 
With him is safe, most probably. 

Yet I am dubious somewhat. 

A habit, tendency or trait 
Of any kind I know is not 

An easy thing to extirpate. 

Therefore when jaded roues grow 
Aweary of those haunts of theirs, 

Women — good women — should place no 
Reliance on their vows and prayers. 

My views may seem harsh, yet I do 
Not wish in any wise to shake 

A girl's faith in her power to 

Always keep straight a reformed rake. 



THE SMOKER'S CHURCH. 281 

Smoking is permitted in The Man's Church (as it is called) in 
Atlantic City, and the writer is informed that many who attend 
the services avail themselves of the smoking privilege. This inno- 
vation in church ethics has suggested these verses. 

A man who cannot put aside his pipe 

Or his cigar or cigarette the while 
He worships his Creator, is a type 

Of humankind which must make Satan smile. 

Why, in some playhouses devoted to 

Burlesque performances, whose patrons are 

Exclusively male bipeds, one may chew 
And spit, but one must not smoke a cigar. 

Yet here on Sabbath morns, within the walls 
Of this church by the sea, there may be seen, 

Dimly through thick tobacco haze, the thralls 
Of Alcohol's twin sister — Nicotine. 

Mohammedans, whom we so criticise. 

E'er entering their mosques, remove their shoes. 

Strange people ! Yes, yet probably as wise 
As those of us who lounge and smoke in pews. 

Men who are wont to smoke and chew and drink 

Can find time outside sanctuaries to 
Indulge their tastes ; they should refrain, I think, 

From such things while they occupy a pew. 

I do not say that smoking is a sin, 

But men at church — if I might give advice — 

Should not, during the service, indulge in 
A habit which is — well, not overnice. 

Am I too captious ? Maybe so, and yet 
I must say there are certain places where 

Men should show God respect ; a cigarette 
Should not be lighted in a house of prayer. 

Upon the street, in dining-rooms, in cars, 
Blowing their fumes in everybody's face. 

Let men puff cigarettes, pipes and cigars ; 
But in a church smoking seems out of place. 



282 RHYME'S INEFFICACY. 

Do laws prevent crime? No, not much. 

Do sermons? No. Does force suffice? 
Or moral suasion? Can I crush 

Out by my rhyme all forms of vice? 

No, I can ne'er do this ; the three 
Worst vices that afflict and curse 

The modern world can never be 

Wiped off earth's surface by my verse. 

So 'gainst the dram-shop, gambling-den 
And the house of bad morals I'll 

Say nought ; at rhythmic screeds the men 
Who frequent such haunts would but smile. 

Yes, rhyme in general [my rhyme in 

Particular] is weak, and so 
Lyric Philippics against sin 

Would be most futile, as I know. 

Hence I shall not excoriate 

The evils of the day, nor chide 

The drinker, gamester, profligate, 
In verses which they would deride. 

Against this active trio, then. 
Which upholds vice so ably, I'll 

Say nought ; to lash vice with a pen — 
A rhythmic pen — seems not worth while. 

It is not that I really fear 

The amused smiles, or the abuse — 

An oath perhaps, maybe a sneer — 

From those I rile — but what's the use? 

Perhaps I may be able to 

Write more effective verse sometime ; 

If so, I'll try what I can do 

Towards ridding this world of its crime. 

But as no bards have yet, we know. 

Reformed the world by aught they wrote, 

The chances of my doing so 
Appear exceedingly remote. 



POSTERITY. 283 

Once in the senate hall some one 

Cried out " What has posterity 
E'er done for us ! " Well, it has done 

More than this flippant wit could see. 

The annals of our race disclose 

Great deeds performed by mortals who 

Hoped for posthumous fame; this shows 
Us what posterity may do. 

Men, ere they die, toil hard and save 

For others — to provide for them 
Makes men unselfish, kind and brave. 

Should we such qualities condemn? 

So to these others who draw out 

Our greatest virtues, are not we 
Beholden? Yes, there is no doubt, 

We owe much to posterity. 

To work for our dear ones who 

Outlive us, and also for their 
Descendants, is to add unto 

The world's wealth and our own welfare. 

Our words influence those who may 

Survive us ; thoughts we launch may roll 

Along the years till time's last day. 

Do not these facts spur now one's soul? 

Men who have yet to tread life's ways 
May bless us for our words of cheer. 

Surely this knowledge makes these days. 
Which we now live, more bright and dear. 

Posterity! Those friends that are 
As yet unborn ! Ah ! that day when 

We meet on a fair, distant star 

We'll thank them — yes, we'll thank them then. 



284 THE REDEEMED. 

The wickedest are the most cowardly; 

Their impulse to be good when death draws neat 
May be due to contrition, or may be 

But the result of an all sudden fear. 

Death-bed repentances do not impress 
Me very greatly : if they be sincere, 

'Twould seem those who are steeped in wickedness 
Are surest of God's love after life here. 

The man who sins — magnificently sins, 

Who in his brother's blood imbrues his hands, 

Is he who at the close of this life wins 
A sure passport to Eden's fairest lands : 

After his last (perhaps his first) real prayer 
The murderer — saved and redeemed by grace — 

Goes from the gallows or electric chair 
Straightway into a loving God's embrace. 

But we whose lives are uneventful, we 

Who do no mighty crimes, we men who try 

To act aright, face less assuringly 

That unknown future when we come to die. 

If I had done some murdering instead 

Of rhyming I might be more sure these days 

Of that hereafter which most mortals dread, 
While women would be sending me bouquets ! 

Fresh flowery favors from fond female friends 
And perfumed notes are not for him who woos 

The gentle Muse, but for the one who ends 
His crime-crammed career in a calaboose. 



Let not my words rob malefactors of 

The joy they find in thinking God will save 

Their sinful souls ; we all need God's great love- 
We all are on our way now to the grave. 



A SOCIALIST. 285 

Surely I grudge no wretch condemned to die 
That rapture, bliss and glory which, it seems, 

He will in heaven know : I but ask why 

We lesser sinners may not dream such dreams ! 

We who can not accept the doctrines taught 

By certain masters of theology 
Will have no standing in that higher court 

Which seals our doom for all eternity. 



A SOCIALIST. 

Private property is wrong, the State certainly should seize 
It for us proletarians; this would be best I'm sure. 

The State could then support us, we could do just as we please; 
We all would then be equal, there would be no rich nor poor. 

We would not have to work then, for the State could well afford, 
With confiscated coin from erstwhile bloated millionaires, 

To amuse us, clothe us, see to our lodging and our board ; 

The State would run the trolleys ; we'd ride then and pay no fares. 

Each man could have an aeroplane, a yacht and motor-car ; 

I would summer at Bar Harbor, or possibly I might 
Prefer to hang around a nearer, dearer, different bar ; 

There's one downtown whose cocktails are to me a pure delight. 

I love a certain woman ; no, I do not mean my wife, 

But the fair spouse of a neighbor who lives some doors above ; 

She's my Socialistic soulmate, my affinity, my life ; 
We both look for the dawning of the era of free love. 

While the coffers of the State with the coin were nicely lined, 
And those humanitarians, who are to us so good. 

Would hand us daily our portion of the swag, you'd find 
That I would prove most loyal to the glorious Brotherhood. 

Should men of capital protest when our order swipes 

Their property, we'll clap them, every mother's son, in jail. 

When the Socialists' Proud Banner floats o'er the stars and stripes, 
I at that joint downtown shall gulp full many a gin cocktail. 



286 HUMANITY. 

This term, so frequently exploited by the Socialists, has sug- 
gested these lines as likely to prove a befitting battle song for the 
Socialistic brethren. 

Humanity ! That is the word which gives us such delight ; 

We dearly love to harp on it — we of The Brotherhood. 
Our individuality we sink clean out of sight ; 

Our one concern in life is to promote the general good. 

Humanity ! We'll shout that word until our throats are hoarse. 

The shibboleth's a dandy one, and often it has stood 
Us in good stead when stringing the dear public — er — of course 

I mean when pleading for our cause, the — er — yes, general good. 

Humanity ! 'Tis glorious to — er — expatiate 

On love for one's own kind, ah yes ! and thrifty workers should 
Be social and hand over all their savings to the State, 

'Tis sweet to sacrifice oneself thus — for the general good ! 

Humanity ! A car e so great should make us brave and bold ; 

We'll crush those li. 'Sters who own property, indeed we would 
Wade to our waists in plutocratic gore if we were told 

That doing so would but subserve the — er — yes, general good 



ABOLISHING LIFE'S EVILS. 

Men talk about abolishing 

War, murder, vice, all kinds of crime. 
Well, this would be a blessed thing; 

But 'twill take time, yes, 'twill take time. 



SOCIALISM AND ANARCHISM. 287 

A Socialist declares that his 

Especial theory really is 

Unlike the one held by those who 

Are Anarchists — but is this true? 

They seem dissimilar I know, 

Yes, " diametrically " so, 

As is oft said ; but the result 

Gained by adopting either cult 

Would be the same. To Anarchy 

True Socialism tends. Let's see. 

Both Socialists and Anarchists 

Are properly placed on the lists 

Of our land's malignant foes; 

'Tis hard to tell just which one shows 

The greater hatred for the grand 

Old flag that still waves o'er our land. 

I've heard the speakers of each sect 

Rant in our halls ; in one respect 

These speakers are alike; they vie 

With one another to decry 

This our Republic, in which we 

Have equal opportunity 

To strive for life's joys; yes, this gem 

Of all republics they condemn. 

Our institutions they assail ; 

At law and virtue they both rail ; 

Against our homes and charities. 

Our morals, wealth, and industries, 

And everything that we hold dear, 

These envious ones have but a sneer. 
" Let's from the map obliterate 
" The Government we loathe and hate," 

Thus says the Anarchist. " Agreed," 



288 SOCIALISM AND ANARCHISM. 

Replies the Socialist, " we'll need 
" Some centralized strong power then 
" To run all business and rule men ; 
" This power — the State — to all who may 
" Its philanthropic rules obey, 
"Is bound to make life better than 
" All other systems ever can." 
" Not so, not so, my good friend," here 

Breaks in the Anarchist, " it's clear * 

That while your social views are nice 

Yet they will scarcely, sir, suffice. 

I'd like the State to pamper me, 

But I prefer full liberty — 

Full license, if you'd have it so ; 

I would be free to come and go. 

State pampering would weary me, 

I would be absolutely free. 

I, as is every anarchist, 

Am a true individualist. 

To serve the State, sir, for the good 

Of our common brotherhood 

Is nice, O ! yes, but excuse me, 

I for myself want liberty. 

I wish to be as free as air, 

And I am sure I could not bear 

The restraints of the State ; I trow 

I'd not be then as free as now. 

But, really, if men would obey 

The State, as you, sir, think they may. 

Why could they not live, one and all, 

* It should be remarked that from this point to the end of the 
poem it is the philosophic anarchist who is holding forth ; it is 
his views, not the writer's, which herein are being given. 



SOCIALISM AND ANARCHISM. 289 

Free from its constant beck and call? 

In time the kind, paternal State 

May grow despotically great. 

E'en in small homes things don't go well 

At times, and children oft rebel. 

Will unity be the outcome 

Of your large Socialistic home? 

Compliance — for the general good — 

With the State's kindly orders would 

Be grand and noble — quite so, still 

Obeying just one's own sweet will 

Seems easier; yes, Anarchy 

Is practicable, as you see. 

Your system, though sustained by strong 

And new-made laws, would not last long. 

You scoff at patriotism, while 

You look for (and this makes me smile) 

Obedience and love and all 

True loyalty from every thrall 

In your Great Commonwealth, so called, 

When finally it is installed. 
To formulate and to enforce 
Your social laws will take of course 
A host of statesmen learn'd in law, 
A vast constabulary corps, 
Armies of clerks, and also hosts 
Of office-holders to fill posts. 
All this, as I'm free to infer, 
Will somewhat tax your exchequer. 
To help her wards the State, I'm sure. 
Must in some way the means procure. 
Now our demands, sir, will be great; 
This might impoverish the State. 



290 SOCIALISM AND ANARCHISM. 

It would be awkward, 'pon my soul, 
To put the dear State in a hole. 
'Tis true, your sect will run the mint, 
And turn out money without stint, 
But foreigners with whom you deal, 
As deal you must, perhaps won't feel 
Like trusting you ; yes, they may doubt 
The worth of that coin you turn out ; 
Your fiat funds they may refuse. 
Thus the world's credit you will lose. 
This possibly might wound your pride. 
You would feel mildly mortified. 
Then will your theory, so fine-spun, 
Abolish graft, which we all shun? 
I doubt it. No, take it from me. 
You can't uproot cupidity 
From human hearts, sir, by a scheme 
Of making Law a god supreme. 
Why e'en the gods that seem to be 
Fail to check immorality. 
I don't like gods, and I deplore 
The deifying of the law. 
Your centralized Bureaucracy 
In no wise, sir, appeals to me. 
Still go ahead and make the law 
(Which I confess, sir, I abhor) 
Obnoxious to the world, and you 
Will most unquestionably do 
Me a great service, for you know 
Obnoxious things in time must go. 
My aim in life (yours too, I trust,) 
Is to wipe law from off earth's crust; 
Your method, though more indirect 



SOCIALISM AND ANARCHISM. 291 

Than mine, may prove of some effect. 

My nature's frank ; guile and deceit 

I do not like, yet I'm discreet; 

Therefore your creed, my crafty friend, 

Suits me all right; I'll gain my end 

If your strange theory you but spread 

Among mankind — so go ahead. 

We'll laugh (you doubtless in your sleeve, 

But I'll laugh loud) while fools believe 

In the Utopia ( !) they'll gain 

When men of your persuasion reign. 

So go ahead, I shan't prevent 

Your onslaught on this government, 

Whose laws are (this amuses me) 

Lighter and fewer than will be 

Those of your sect when it controls 

Some ninety million human souls. 

O ! 'twill afford me a real joy 

When this Republic you destroy. 

When on its ruins your queer sect 

Its socialistic State erect, 

It won't be long ere men will be 

Dissatisfied, then Anarchy 

Will reign supreme. Proceed therefore 

In your attempt to make the law 

All powerful ; when law controls 

Men's businesses, and lives, and souls, 

Then Anarchy is nsar, my friend. 

Proceed therefore, you serve the end 

That I have long been striving for — 

Utter abolishment of law. 

This is the end I have in view. 

The Socialists but play into 



292 NECESSITIES. 

My hands. Poor fools ! some of them say 

That, " diametrically ", they 

Are as a class arrayed 'gainst me. 

The fact is they aid Anarchy. 

Yoii leaders know this, but not those 

Dupes who the rank and file compose ; 

They help us though — these willing dupes- 

In our contentions and disputes. 

To make use of a pet word such 

As " diametrically " much 

Delights the rank and file when they 

Meet their foes in a wordy fray. 

Then, too, these dupes disseminate 

The seeds of malice, greed and hate; 

Without their aid it would be vain 

To hope, as I do, for the reign 

Of Anarchy, when Law shall be 

Abolished and all men are free. 

Free, aye ! not wards, sir, of a State 

But masters of themselves and fate. 



LIBERTY. 

Liberty! Though the price of it may 
Be great, it is worth all we pay: 
Vigilance that ne'er nods, 
Ne'er relaxes. Ye gods ! 
It is worth it, yes, worth it, I say. 



NECESSITIES. 

We all mean well ; justice and love 
Most men desire ; all want peace. 

Yet the world needs its legions of 

Priests, soldiers, watchmen and police. 



BUYING FOREIGN TITLES. 293 

The many matrimonial corn-pacts recently entered into by rich 
American girls with titled foreigners have suggested these verses. 

Another heiress soon, they say, will wed 
A proud though impecunious foreign earl. 

But who here in the States intends to shed 
A tear because we are to lose this girl? 

It does, though, seem a pity to behold 
A poor, weak and misguided daughter of 

Ambitious parents thus exchange her gold 
For — what? A title— not, ah! not for love. 

Not love, not love ; her wealth is great, 'tis true, 
But love, the richest gift by heaven sent, 

The girl possesses not ; she never knew. 

And ne'er will know, life's holiest sentiment. 

Obsessed now by the thought that she sometime 
Will wear a crown, this foolish maiden would 

Yield up her body and her soul — a crime 
That shocks the moral sense of womanhood. 

What will not money do ! With it one may 
Procure a title from the Church or State. 

A millionaire can give his child away 

To some high lord who seeks a wealthy mate. 

And priests will bless the union of the two, 

While Heaven shudders and while Hell applauds. 

The world's flesh-pots attract a motley crew ; 

'Round them are found dukes, clericals and lords. 

A titled son-in-law comes high, but no 
Buyer objects who can the price afford. 

The son's thrice bless'd — by Pa, by Ma, also 
By some " vicegerent ", so-called, of the Lord. 



294 RELIGION AND SCIENCE. 

This thrice-bless'd son now enters on a course 
Of wildest living ; he neglects his wife — 

Drink, debt, debauchery, despair, divorce. 

And death! So ends " a romance in high life ". 

If King George had but knocked out Washington 
Some of us here might now be belted earls 

And win fair brides. I'm glad, though, our George won. 
I never cared much for tuft-hunting girls. 

None of us need deplore the fact that these 

Two sordid souls will wed ; they may, you know, 

Harness themselves in wedlock if they please ; 
She needs the title and he needs the dough. 



PROBABILITIES OF ANOTHER LIFE. 

Another life, it seems to me. 

Is likely. Time? Nay, we need more 
Than time ; we need eternity 

To do all we are cut out for. 

Still I may err ; some of us do 
A great deal in this life of time. 

I've done myself (is this not true?) 
Enough — yes, quite enough of rhyme. 



RELIGION AND SCIENCE. 

Religion and science appear 
To mistrust each other. 'Tis queer 
That such times when the two 
Seem to clash, as they do. 
Religion should show the most fear ! 

No, religion, as her acts well show, 
Is brave. I was wrong — yes, quite so. 

She and science agree. 

It is theology 
Which is timid and fearful, we know. 



ARBITRATION. 295 

One night a footpad stopped me — " Sir," said he, 
" Your money or your life " ; my fright was great. 

My life and coin are rather dear to me, 
So I replied—" O ! let us arbitrate ! " 

" Let us arbitrate, let us arbitrate." 

" Not much," he answered, " if you care to live. 
Hand out your cash ; come ! I've no time to wait." 

I yielded ; there was no alternative. 

The crook was subsequently pinched and tried ; 

They found him guilty, I am glad to state. 
When sentenced to be fined and jugged, he cried — 

" O ! judge, your honor, won't you arbitrate? " 

" Let us arbitrate, let us arbitrate." 

" Well, hardly," said the Judge. " I really fail 
To see the use ; I must incarcerate 

Your corpus, for a season, in the jail." 

" Here is an ode to Spring, 'tis one of those — " 

The Editor, though taken unawares. 
Acted with rare discretion, he uprose 

And promptly kicked the rash bard down the stairs. 

" Let us arbitrate, let us arbitrate ! " 

Thus yelled the falling poet. Ah ! but who 

Could then have helped him? 'Twas too late — too late! 
No schemes of arbitration now would do. 

They bore the shattered poet to the " Chi ", 

Where long he laid in a delirious state. 
Raving of jocund spring, and asking why 

It was that they refused to arbitrate. 



296 OLD THOUGHTS. 

" Let us arbitrate, let us arbitrate — " 

This cry of his re-echoed through the wards. 

He spoke, too, of his soul — how it would mate 
With hers, ere long, on daisy-spangled swards. 

When dreamers here, whose strange schemes work so well 
(That is, in theory), reach fair Heaven's gate, 

And Peter tells them all to go to — well, 

Will they then say — " O ! let us arbitrate? " 

" Let us arbitrate, let us arbitrate ! " 

Their cry for arbitration won't help though; 

The saint is firm, he will not hesitate 
To tell them all to go to — er — below. 



OLD THOUGHTS. 

Life seems to me (and doubtless to 
Others also) most strange; the more 

I see — but these thoughts are not new; 
I've uttered them, I think, before. 

Still there's no harm reuttering 

Old thoughts when we've no new ideas. 

Life ! Yes, the more I view the thing 
The more mysterious it appears. 

Let me muse, therefore, o'er the old, 

Old thought — that life is strange ; although 

Another life, so we are told. 

More strange than this we are to know. 

That other life ! Yes, it will be 

More strange than this, and far more fair. 
What happiness we'll know when we 

Greet our loved and lost ones there ! 



SOME REFLECTIONS. 297 

There are visionaries who 

Have evolved great schemes to do 
Away with crime, work, poverty and cares. 

All will be most lovely when 

'Mong the world's vast hordes of men 
The faddists introduce these schemes of theirs. 

I am doubtful, though, if these 

Social doctrinaires who please 
The credulous among us with their schemes, 

Can by law make all men kind, 

True and loving. No, I find 
An iridescent gleam about such dreams. 

When one contemplates those two 

Philosophic savants who 
Are so unbrotherly, how can one look 

For the promised love that will 

Every mortal's bosom fill 
When new and strange laws choke the statute-book? 

In the far-off Northern zone 

'Neath the Pole Star, cold and lone, 
A Peary and a Cook could not agree; 

Yet the faddists say when they 

Rule the country all men may 
Dwell then together in sweet unity ! 



ASSASSINS. 

A speed-fiend these days in his motor-car 

Is like a slanderer, it seems to me. 
In what way you ask? How obtuse you are: 

He runs men down. Dost now the likeness see? 

Our lives and our reputations too — ■ 

Yes, our good names (the " jewels of the soul ") 
Are at the mercy of assassins who 

O'er their cars and vile tongues have no control. 



298 WEALTH. 

The rich, so some say, are all thieves, 
The poor, all saints — but is this true? 

I doubt if any one believes 

The statement, though some claim they do. 

By trickery one cannot rise 

To any height ; no cause is won 

By a resort to fraud ; not lies 

But truth wins out in the long run. 

Thieves are not trusted ; crookedness 

Avails not ; honesty in these 
Days of hard struggle brings success ; 

It is the best of policies. 

And yet most men are honest — why 
Do not more of us, then, succeed? 

The fact is we are rather shy 
Of other qualities we need. 

Thrift, diligence, strong nerves, good health, 

Sobriety and common sense. 
Joined with integrity, win wealth 

And raise a man to eminence. 

We know this well, and yet at Fate's 
Stern laws we rail ; our failures quite 

Embitter us. O ! how one hates 

The man who prospers in life's fight. 

Brains, pluck and skill — if one has piled 
Up wealth by exercising these 

Good traits, why should he be reviled 
By those who lack such qualities? 

I'll never make my pile, for I 

Possess no skill in gathering coin, 

But in the common hue and cry 
Against the rich I shall not join. 



SUCCESS. 299 



I hold that malice is a sin, 

And envy too. I think such traits 
Can only find a lodgment in 

The warped minds of degenerates. 

I blame not anybody who 

Amasses wealth ; we all — had we 

The needed talents — would try to 
Acquire independency. 

I'd like to be a millionaire. 

Yes, I admit it ; yet I'm sure 
I grudge no man on earth the share 

Of wealth he's managed to secure. 



SUCCESS. 

Let no one judge from the above 
Remarks on wealth that success lies 

In the accumulation of 

Hard cash ; one should not thus surmise. 

If one has helped his fellow-men. 
As best he could, in their distress — 

If one has always meant well, then 
One has, I take it, gained success. 

For he who has thus acted will 

Know, as he draws anear life's goal, 

A joy and peace that cannot fill 
A mere gold-gatherer's sordid soul. 

Many of us may not have won 

Success as money-makers, but 
The word " Failed ", when our lives are done, 

Need not on our tombstones be cut. 



300 WAR. 

Wars in the past were doubtless necessary. 

But the world now perhaps can get along 
Without resorting to those sanguinary 

Methods of righting that which we think wrong. 

An insult, for example, from some nation, 
Envious of this Republic's greatness, might 

Be settled honorably by arbitration. 

Why rush, like brutes, into a bloody fight? 

War! Is it hell, as Sherman one time stated? 

Ah! it is worse. If hell exists, I feel 
Its woes are very oft exaggerated. 

But war ! — it's far more awful, far more real. 



AN ARMED PEACE. 

An armed peace is almost as expensive 

As war itself; though we may need these vast 
And costly armaments, I'm apprehensive 

As to the peace they "safeguard". Will it last? 

It seems so strange that after very nearly 

Two thousand years of Christian teaching we 
Have gained — what? Peace? — sweet, lasting peace? Nay, merely 

A truce of doubtful durability. 

War may. ere long, engage the close attention 

Of every nation in fair Christendom. 
We live in terrifying apprehension 

Of that curse which we know some day will come. 

Ships, armaments and fighting men — we need them. 

Yes, we for war must ever be prepared. 
Prayers! Peace-funds! Arbitration courts! Who'll heed them? 

When wars are wanted wars will be declared. 



THE CARMEN'S STRIKE. 301 

Those inconsiderate young men, who for weeks past have stoned 
cars when a chance has offered, now have got aweary of the sport 
somewhat; some have been fined and others jailed. Ah! when 
these reckless youths asailed the trolley-crews and riders they 
recked not with Reyburn and with Clay. To work on cars or 
ride therein is most assuredly no sin. This fact, 'mong other 
wholesome truths, has now been taught these thoughtless youths. 
We peaceful citizens, therefore, who always have upheld the law, 
may once again, without a fear, avail ourselves of that most dear 
and sacred right so long denied to us ; I mean the right to ride 
in the street cars. O ! we should give thanks for this blest pre- 
rogative. To feel now when we ride that we don't place our lives 
in jeopardy is something to be thankful for. The reign of order 
and of law is re-set up. Peace is installed. The sympathetic 
strike, so-called, has proved a fizzle; listen to the hum of industry. 
Ah ! who, these days of " sympathetic " strikes, failed to secure 
the things he likes? Who was deprived of bread, of beer, of 
milk, of meat? 0! hear, just hear the rattle on our thorough- 
fares of carts heaped high with sundry wares. We all are happy, 
save a few dupes of unworthy leaders who don't realize the glory 
of our country and the flag we love. Our thrifty workers will 
not grieve when these disgruntled leaders leave the city, whose 
vast industries they tried to ruin. Ah ! did these more thrifty 
workers, when told they must draw their trust-funds out, obey? 
No, they, though in the union ranks, still keep their money in 
the banks. The bankers at the old stands do their business still. 
Is this not true?* Blind leaders! Pitifully blind! Why is it 

* With the view of crippling the fiduciary institutions of the 
city, the trade-union leaders had ordered every union workman to 
withdraw at once from banks and trust companies every dollar 
he had therein on deposit. The leaders also declared a sympa- 
thetic strike throughout the state, ordering all union workmen in 
all lines of industry to stop work on a certain day and not resume 
same until allowed to do so. 



302 THE CARMEN''S STRIKE. 

labor cannot find, in all the varied industries, more able officers 
than these? In politics they soon intend to drag their cause. 
Where will it end? These baffled, vengeful men, alas! would now 
array class against class. A new religion they'll next spring on 
us, to which we all must cling. They'll fail, though, in their 
every plan of exploiting the workingman. Yes, give them rope 
enough and they will surely hang themselves some day. It was 
our Mayor, yes, it was he who by his might crushed anarchy. 
Before the rabble others quailed, but the Mayor's courage never 
failed ; when others would have parleyed, he stood for the law's 
supremacy; peace, lasting peace, dear to our hearts, he won by 
his intrepid arts. All honor to the strong, brave, stern and 
level-headed man — Reyburn. We Philadelphians well may be 
proud of Reyburn and of Clay ; they did but do their duty, still 
they showed such pluck, and tact, and skill, and such impartiality 
in serving us, that every free, right-minded, loyal citizen feels 
grateful now to these two men. And to O'Leary, yes, to him 
our thanks are due. Long life to " Tim ". To this staunch chief 
and his brave men, who safeguarded our city when mobs sought 
to pillage her, we owe a debt of gratitude also. And there's an- 
other sturdy son of our town towards whom each one is kindly 
drawn — 'tis Kruger, who would not hand o'er his business to the 
enemy ; all of us feel for Kruger, man of blood and steel, a deep 
regard ; ah ! no one could intimidate this man who stood heroically 
for the right. His cause was just; he won the fight. E'en 
Kruger's foes in their hearts must acknowledge that his cause 
was just. 



MY NAME IS PLATT. 303 

Sentiments supposed to have been uttered by a national strike 
promoter and organizer when in Philadelphia, 1910, superintend- 
ing the trolleymen's causeless strike which so signally failed of 
success. The chief demand of the strikers was recognition of 
their union, this demand the Trolley Company would not grant. 

I have rings on my toes, 

As everybody knows ; 
And corns, too — but then why mention that? 

Men shudder when I frown ; 

I come from Detroit town. 
I was once a workingman ; my name is Piatt. 

Pray don't forget the name, 

Piatt— C. O. Piatt ; the same 
Is calculated to inspire awe. 

I'm a veritable god, 

Slaves tremble when I nod ; 
Piatt is my name, as I have said before. 

Six thousand car-men, who 

Had fairly good jobs, threw 
Them up at my command ; it seemed a shame, 

But then I had to show 

My authority, you know. 
Piatt — Clement Piatt, remember, is my name. 

My admirers now wear 

Many medals upon their 
Manly bosoms, and on every medal my 

Full name — Piatt, Clement O. — 

Appears 'neath my photo ; 
And these tagged-idlers cheer as I mote by ! 

The police I defy. 

When I am mayor, then I 
Shall fire (I'm not talking through my hat) 

Every member of the force. 

I can get along, of course. 
Without the cops. My name, please note, is Piatt. 

I have this bum town scared. 

I've actually declared 
A general strike ; this bluff has got 'em cowed. 

I am playing a deep game. 

Piatt — C. O. Piatt's my name; 
It is a name of which I'm rather proud. 



304 JOHN E. REYBURN. 

I like the name, although 

The letters C and O 
And P don't fully please me ; could I drop 

The "0" I'd find more peace; 

For I don't like police, 
Yet my initials spell that dread word — " cop ! " 

I hate Reyburn and Clay ; 

But wait till Saturday 
And then— no, I must not anticipate. 

Blood in streams shall gush through these 

[My name's Piatt, spelt with two t's] 
Fair streets unless the people arbitrate. 

The timid ones to me 

Now bend the shaking knee. 

I'll force on them my arbitration plan. 
O ! I am gaining fame. 
And C. O. Piatt's my name. 

I'm a " workingman " from Detroit, Mich-i-gan. 



JOHN E. REYBURN. 

[Written in respectful acknowledgment of the Mayor's cour- 
ageous conduct, and of his great services to the city, during the 
strike riots in the early part of 1910.] 

All honor to our Mayor, John E. Reyburn. 

When lawlessness in our fair town prevailed, 

When men, some men, of a high calling, quailed 
Before the mob, the Mayor was firm and stern ; 
He knew what other men have yet to learn — 

That parleying with mobs is wrong; he jailed 

The miscreants who wantonly assailed 
Men at their peaceful tasks ; at every turn 
He balked the schemers who had formed a plan 

To unseat Justice and to paralyze 

The industries that able men and wise 
Have built here through laborious years. We can 
With grateful hearts thank God for this strong man — 

This strong, brave man who knows where duty lies. 



A STRIKE. 305 

[These dispassionate verses were suggested by the lawlessness 
and distress which, in the summer of IQII, attended an ill-advised 
and most unsuccessful strike for trade-union recognition in one 
of the world's greatest industrial plants, located in Philadelphia. 
It should not be thought that the writer is unfriendly disposed 
towards labor. He may believe that many trade-union officials 
are becoming unduly arrogant and are at times inclined to make 
preposterous demands which if granted would unsettle business 
generally and cause much suffering to everybody engaged therein ; 
but one who has such beliefs as these and who frankly expresses 
them, does not, of course, show thereby that he is in any wise 
an enemy of the workers.] 

Men, while hastening to their 

Work at early morning time, 
Waylaid in our city fair ! 

Beaten! Why? Pray, for what crime? 

Wanting work — this "crime" is theirs. 

Who asails them? Let us know 
Who, on the town's thoroughfares. 

Beat and kick the workers so. 

Strikers ! Well, we sympathize 

With them in their just complaints; 

We're not callous to their cries ; 
Employers are — well, not saints. 

What are now these strikers' woes? 

Did their late employers dare 
To ill-treat them and impose 

Wrongs which were too great to bear? 

No, it seems their greatest woe 

Is the firm they once worked for 
Won't yield to "The Union", so 

They — its members — break the law. 

On the street they loaf and glare 

At the willing workers who 
Pass by on the way to their 

Work — work they are glad to do. 



306 A VERACIOUS NARRATIVE. 

Men may work if they wish to. 

This right who — yes, who denies ? 
We should protect all men who 

This clear right would exercise. 

We should teach those who belong 
To trade-unions that to 

Kill non-unionists is wrong: 

This the strikers should not do. 

We think these malcontents, then, 
Are not warranted — not quite 

In assaulting workingmen, 

Which, to us, does not seem right. 



A VERACIOUS NARRATIVE. 

A farmer once [this tale is true, 

For otherwise I'd not tell it. 
I'm really not a person who 

Would fib merely to make a hit.] 

This farmer he [if any doubt 
The truth of this they only need 

Consult the record to find out 
That what I say is true indeed.] 

The farmer had [of course I know 
That writers oft prevaricate ; 

Hence this tale may be doubted, though 
'Tis true, as I again would state.] 

The farmer had a cow, the same 
Was run o'er on the B. & O. 

Against the road he made a claim — 
A claim for damages, you know. 

He claimed one hundred dollars, yes, 
And got it. He the day before 

Would have sold that cow for much less. 
It pays to have a cow run o'er. 



WOMAN SUFFRAGE. 307 

She wants the ballot in her hands, 

The which in time she'll doubtless get. 

Man has to bow to the demands 
Of a determined suffragette. 

Who can oppose a woman when 

Her methods are as militant 
As those who want to vote like men? 

Thwart such a woman ? No, I can't. 

What ! stop a suffragette who rails 

'Gainst custom, laws and fate? Estop 

Her tongue, which lashes men? Her nails, 
Which scar the features of a cop? 

Stop her from hurling brickbats through 
Shop windows? — from assaulting State 

Officials? — from attempting to 

Burn halls wherein men congregate? 

Nay, this at present most rampant 

Hysteria of hers will grow 
Less marked in time ; and so I shan't 

Try to suppress her now. Oh, no ! 

Give woman carte-blanche, as it were, 
To do what she thinks serves her cause. 

'Tis unchivalrous to jail her 

r"or breaking man's or e'en God's laws. 



AN UNIMPORTANT MATTER. 

I do not care a dam (of course 
I mean by this a tinker's dam) 

For lobster and anchovy sauce ; 
I'd rather any day have ham. 

This matter may appear of slight 
Importance ; but let me explain, 

I merely tell it so I might 

Say " dam " and not be thought profane. 



308 RESOURCEFUL WOMAN. 

In these days woman excels man 
In courage, nimble wit and zeal. 

Listen, O ! listen, ye who can, 

To certain truths I would reveal. 

Fear wrecks men's lives. Ah ! we bards, who 
Through psychologic lenses peer 

In human souls, know well how few 
Men in the world are void of fear. 

Man's cowardice may briefly be 
Depictured here ; and briefly, too, 

In this sketch woman's bravery 
And ready art we might review. 

When they first met they felt they were 
Made for each other : she knsw he 

Was her soul's destined mate ; in her 
The man found his affinity. 

He lacked the nerve, though, to propose. 

The woman pined not in despair ; 
She roped in later, the world knows, 

A guileless multimillionaire. 

SfC ^ ^ ^ -JC ijC >!* 

'Twere well perhaps, before I close, 
To let the gentle reader glance 

Upon the lives now led by those 
Who figured in this love romance. 

A married pair dwell at the shore 
Most sumptuously, I have heard : — 

A blighted wretch works in a store 
On Market street not far from Third. 

And such is fate ! He who declares 
Men strong and women weak has yet 

To learn a thing or two. Who dares 
Talk thusly to a suffragette? 



TO MISS MARGARET , 309 

School Teacher and Suffragette. 

I hope Miss Margaret will be 

Very successful in this life. 
She can't be president, but she 

May be a president's dear wife. 

But O ! she is a suffragette. 

Fate, consequently, may have meant 
The fair, ambitious Mar-ga-ret 

To be an actual president. 

Down — down with man ; let woman rule. 

Can she do so? I think she can. 
Too long, too long she's been the tool. 

The slave and plaything of base man. 

Love? Nonsense. Pooh! No militant 
Vote-huntresses such weakness show. 

Love? Up-to-date young women can't 
Trust men enough for that. O no ! 

We all — both men and women — love 

Our country ; true, the petticoats 
Love the Church more ; 'twill rank above 

The State when women have the votes. 

Well, well, the Church is pure j and who 

Doubts her infallibility? 
Most women would prefer her to 

The State, and this appeals to me. 

So if the Church should reign again. 

If she her old claim reasserts 
To rule our consciences, we men 

Won't mind ; we like to please the skirts. 



310 TO MISS MARGARET . 

Fair woman's privileges here 

On earth are not enough — not quite. 

The ballot might enlarge her sphere ; 
She really claims it as a right. 

'Tis time on earth for something new. 
What good has tyrant man e'er done? 

The world will learn a thhig or two 

When " Margie " reigns at Wash-ing-ton. 

Perhaps these lines are foolish, yet 
Many true things are said in jest. 

But I should close ; Miss Mar-ga-ret 
Is tired and deserves a rest. 

Miss Margaret might " keep me in ", 
Or set me some hard task, I fear ; 

Or in some manner discipline 
Me if I do not stop right here. 

But " bards " are privileged to sin 
Against established laws sometimes. 

Forgive me then ; don't " keep me in " 
For perpetrating rhymes — or crimes. 

Miss Margaret is not, I hear, 

Unduly strict ; they say she's kind. 

Still if she means to be severe 

And keep me in — well, I won't mind. 

Expulsion — that's the thing I fear. 

I dread no other punishment. 
I shall, when called, at once appear 

Before our future President. 

Whatever tasks she sets I will 

Accomplish, though they take up all 

A livelong day — from morn until 
The evening dewdrops on earth fall. 



DOING IT. 311 



" Everybody's doing it now." — Line from a popular ditty. 

Verses written to while on her European tour in the 

summer and fall of igi2. 

The song says we're all doing it; 

'Tis likely we all are; I'm no 
Exception, as perhaps this bit 

Of verse which I write here will show. 

From youth up I have rhymed, and still 

I'm at it ; though by doing it 
I ne'er derived, perhaps ne'er will 

Derive the slightest benefit. 

I know I ought to stop, and yet 

Among the songs that I have sung 
There may be one — but don't forget 

To mention me to Sallie Young. 

Yes, as I was about to state. 

Some song sung one time by Cliff Ford 

May some day in some heart vibrate 
A kindly, sympathetic chord. 

But I'm too sanguine, as it were. 

No verse-line can I ever drop 
That will in any manner stir 

" Her " heart ; and so I better stop. 

Stop? Nay, I cannot stop, I fear. 

'Twere easier, in point of fact. 
To stop those waters as they near 

Niagara's awesome cataract. 

Stop? Ah! go stop the swelling sea's 

Inrushing tide, the flight of time, 
The courses of the stars : all these 

One, mayhap, stop — but not my rhyme. 

Aye ! stop earth's journey round the sun. 
Stop e'en a suffragette's loose tongue. 

But try not, for it can't be done. 
To — 0! but how is Sallie Young? 



312 DOING IT. 

I don't regret, though, giving my 

Time to the Muse, whose smiles so bright 

Lured me from bu=iness, in whch I 
Might have become a shining light. 

Perhaps I'll never wr"te a line 

By which I'll score much of a hit. 

Fame ! Ah ! it never may be mine ! 
But I still go on "doing it". 

Fame's ladder is so hard to scale; 

I've not reached yet its second rung; 
If I keep on, though, I can't fail. 

And so — but, say, how's Sallie Young? 

Your foot now presses. I might say, 

Fair Albion's historic soil, 
Whereon, as in a former day. 

Men live and love and dream and toil. 

Grand has been England's past, and she 
Is still supreme — still great and wise. 

God bless our kin across the sea, 

To whom we're bound by deathless ties. 

The land of Shakespeare ! I would lay 
With reverence upon this bard's 

Sepulchered dust a — er — but, say. 
Give Sallie Young my best regards. 

The freest land upon the sphere 

Is England : there true liberty 
Prevailed while human beings here 

Were kept in hopeless slavery. 

Lincoln redeemed our fair land when 
He freed the wretched slaves therein. 

Now we are happier, better men ; 

We can't forget, though, our past sin. 

Foul crimes, though they be pardoned, still 
Leave marks; but good deeds, though unsung. 

Tend to — er — um — I trust you will 
Remember me to Sallie Young. 



DOING IT. 313 

Sometimes with indignation my 

Blood boils when o'er these things I dwell. 
The fearful past is — hem — say, I 

Trust — er — that Sallie Young's right well. 

I was a child when war began, 

Else I'd have been [as from the gist 
Of thefe remarks one might judge] an 

Unyielding abolitionist. 

A love for freedom seems to dwell 

Within my heart. Ah ! do you know, 
I think this is because I'm — well, 

A poet, if I may say so. 

Perhaps had I been older when 

The war broke out, I might have sprung 

Upon my country's foes ; but then 
I — ah! but how fares Sallie Young? 

You who are now in London-town, 

Whose fogs are wont to hide that sim 
Which beams these days so bright'y down 

On Humpty-third and Ham-il-ton, 

May smile whilst glancing at these lines. 

Doubtless you'll think I ought to quit 
This work ere this day's sun declines, 

And not, as now, be doing it. 

Yet is it very wrongful, when 

Athwart one's brain strange fancies flit, 

To sit down at one's desk with pen 
In hand and there try doing it? 

Business has not knocked sentiment 

From out my life ; nor has time's flight 

Impaired, to any great extent, 

My heart. O no ! my heart's all right. 

The silent passing of the years 

Has calmed my spirit, dulled my wit; 
But yet in grief sometimes, and tears, 

I find myself a-doing it. 



314 ENGLAND AND THE UNITED STATES. 

England ! She's worthy our regards, 
Aye, and our love. I hold most dear 

The birth-land of the Bard of bards : 

The world's resplendent star — Shakespeare I 

England I love — I always will. 

'Tis the true land of liberty. 
We here held men in bondage till 

Immortal Lincoln set them free. 

We boasted — boasted blatantly 

Of freedom when we owned the while 

Four million slaves ! Hypocrisy 

Like this must have made Satan smile. 

When our slaves broke their chains then we 
Chased them as far [forgive us, God,] 

As Canada : there they were free. 

On British ground no slave e"er trod. 

The stain upon our sh'eld has been 

Effaced by sacrifice of lives. 
We're free as England now ; our sin 

Is past — its memory, though, survives. 

Crimes, though condoned by heaven, yet 
Leave scars which time can not out-blot. 

Our country ! May we ne'er forget 
Its saviour, Lincoln, who was shot. 

YELPERS. 

My having dropt a rhythmic line 
In England's praise seems to excite 

Certain compatriots of mine, 

Who rate me for it. Is this right? 

Commenting on faults we possess 
And upon virtues found elrewhere, 

Does not denote that one is less 
A patriot, as some declare. 

To yelp at England seems to please 

Some m.en immensely. I've begun 
To get impatient, though, with these 

Yelpers ; they greatly tire one. 



DREAMY DRONES. 315 

A dreamer ! Bah ! But few 

Care aught for him, it seems. 
The world wants men who do 

Great things — not one who dreams. 

Though his ideals be high, 

Though he conceives bold schemes, 

Yet — a mere dreamer ! Why 
Should we regard his dreams? 

Yet busy men sometimes, 

At night 'neath luna's beams. 
May be thrilled by the rhymes 

Of some drone who dreams dreams. 



GOOD INTENTIONS. 

Are good intentions well 
To have, or is it true 

They pave the w^ay to hell. 
As it is said they do? 

Intentions that are good. 
E'en if not one of them 

Be carried out, I would 
Not utterly condemn. 

Intentions harm no one ; 

Acts may be better, still 
If no great deeds are done, 

Consider, pray, the icill. 



316 A LETTER. 

Suggested by reading one of William Watson's poems. 

To the Editor of " The Bulletin." 
Dear Sir: 

It is generally conceded that woman is not entirely devoid of 
faults, but when a mere male creature presumes to study her, he 
should not, on discovering some trivial feminine foibles charac- 
teristic of the sex in general, proceed to excoriate the individual 
woman whom he has been examining ; no, that doesn't seem 
chivalrous; it were better (certainly more diplomatic) for the 
bold psychologist to speak of woman in the abstract, and in this 
manner (in the abstract) chide her — very, very gently chide her 
for her shortcomings. It is safer, paradoxical as it may appear, 
to impeach a whole sex than to criticise harshly an individual 
member of it. The impaled individual, if a man, may knock you 
down ; if a woman — well, who can tell what may happen ? But 
when one rails at men or women collectively, they and the world 
at large are apt only to smile. 

I am led to utter these sentiments by reading William Watson's 
poem, just published, entitled " The Woman With the Serpent's 
Tongue." I believe the disgruntled Watson would not have ven- 
ture I to lampoon a man. 

Allow me to present some verses of my own, called forth by the 
English poet's poem. 



WOMAN. 

Woman is human, and, therefore, 
A fault or two she may possess. 

But what of that? We men adore 
And idolize her none the less. 

Ah ! from the cradle to the tomb's 

Dread brink, a woman plays her part 

Well on life's stage ; her smile illumes 
The sad world's palpitating-heart. 

Man in his struggles here on earth 
Her blessed ministration needs; 

Without her, of what little worth 

Were all his aims, and faiths, and creeds ! 



A LETTER. 317 

She is not faultless, no, not quite — 

Not wholly so; but then, but then, 
She is the world's pride and delight, 

The darling of the gods and men. 

The souls of men and souls of gods 
Thrill with love's joy when she is by. 

Who would not, when she smiles or nods. 
Be willing in her cause to die? 

Ah ! when she smiles the old earth rolls 
Blithely along. What joy men find 

When, in the deep depths of their souls, 
Fair woman's image is enshrined ! 

Life without her ! What would it be? 

I hardly dare prognosticate. 
Yet one of that sex is, we see. 

Scored by a would-be laureate. 

What private cause impelled him to 
His spleenful outburst? I'm inclined 

To think he wooed her and she " threw 
Him down " ; he now airs his small mind. 

We read his verse, but none can tell 

Why he thus rants with rhythmic skill. 

A man if he can not speak well 
Of any woman should keep still. 

But here is a — a — well, a bard 

(A slanderer is not a man) 
Who scolds a woman. Why regard 

Him as a man? I never can. 



318 MY SHIP. 

In quest of treasure, which 
Might tend to make one rich, 

I long ago sent out a ship to sea : 
But of tliat venture no 
Tidings have come, although 

My ship, Hope says, will yet return to me. 

There are those who aver 
Hope is untrue — that her 

Fair words and promises are not to be 
Relied upon : but drear 
Were life without Hope near 

To say our ships will some day come from sea. 



GHOSTLY VISITORS. 

When at my desk I write 

Far, far into the night, 
How often in my room strange guests appear : 

They enter silently, 

And gaze so upon me ; 
Their visitations, though, I do not fear. 

They harm me not, and why 

Be rude to them, and by 
My manner show they are unwelcome? Nay, 

I pity them : so sad 

They seem. I never had 
The heart to turn those solemn guests away. 



FLIGHTINESS. 319 

O! if my soul could only break 

Its fetters and on pinions fleet 
Soar in the infinite, I'd make 

All other bards take a back seat. 

I'd pass in my flight from this sphere 

Many who've sung long since, but I 
Would slow up when I reached Shakespeare ; 

I would not, could not pass Bill by. 

I'd pause and. if he would allow, 

I'd shake his hand. I'd love to gaze 
Upon the forehead and the brow 

Of him who wrote such wondrous plays. 



FAME'S INSTABILITY. 

How insecure a thing Is fame ! 

The plays attributed to one 
William Shakespeare were not, they claim, 

Written by Avon's songful son. 

Yes, fame is insecure ; Shakespeare 
Is now attacked ; I, too, may be 

Doubted some day ; these stanzas here 
They'll say could not be done by me. 



THE BACONIAN THEORY. 

If those plays that bear Shakespeare's name 
Were written, as some parties claim, 

By Bacon or by 

Another learned guy. 
What's the odds? — those plays still read the same. 

Doubts of authorship cannot, I know. 
Mar one's joy in those dramas, although 

I like to think 'twas Shakespeare 

Who wrote Hamlet, and Lear, 
And Macbeth, and those sonnets also. 



320 FRIENDS ALL FRIENDS. 

I'm not deficient, if you please, 
In one art : 'tis, as you may guess, 

The art of making enemies, 

In which art I've gained some success. 

Men who have never made a foe 

May be angelic — very true ; 
But they are weak and forceless, so 

Give me an enemy or two. 

A man is very properly 

Judged by the friends with whom he goes 
And by the foes he makes ; let me 

Be judged so. I've both friends and foes. 

If I'm loved for the enemies 
I've made I shall be, I confess, 

Much pleased ; I'm glad when some one sees 
Somethmg to love which I possess. 

To friends and foes whose love and hate 
Have helped me I have cause to be 

Most thankful ; I appreciate 

The help they all have rendered me. 

To those who are no friends nor foes, 
Who grant no favors, but allow 

Me a fair field — yes, I to those 
Feel also very kindly now. 

And so towards all the men who dwell 
On earth whom I have met I may 

Feel kindly ; I wish them all well, 
For all have helped me on life's way. 



ANNETTE. 321 

I scarcely can repress a sigh 

The while in verse I dip : 
I e'en must weep — you ask me why? 

Our Nettie has the grip. 

Perhaps the grip has Nettie, still 

In either case, you know. 
There's cause to grieve, for when Net's ill 

My tears are bound to flow. 

And they are flowing now as they 

Ne'er flowed before : it looks • 
As though my tears will wash away 

The records in my books. 

Lunch time has come, but yet I fear 

I can't eat even pie. 
Who can gulp grub when Net's not here? 

Not I — no, no, not I. 

Out in the joyless day I go : 

While on the thoroughfare 
I cry aloud for Net, but O ! 

That dear girl is not there. 

Back to the office then I reel, 

As one made drunk with grief. 
Self-slaughter, I'm inclined to feel, 

Might bring me some relief. 

Mine is indeed the grief that kills : 

I stagger in the store. 
'Tis hard, I find, to make out bills 

When one's heart is so sore. 

And yet I happily do know 

That somewhere far beyond 
The gathering gloom Hope's star doth glow. 

Why, then, need I despond? 



322 RECOVERED. 

For me there may be pleasure yet 
In this life here ; yes, when 

We have back with us little Net 
I'll breathe and live again. 

But now I'm practically dead, 
A fact which is quite plain. 

I try to think, but my poor head 
Cannot endure the strain. 

A faintness comes upon me now, 
My pen falls from my hand : 

The ceaseless throbbing of my brow 
Is most too much to stand. 

My heart — but no. Why air my woes? 

Fair Nettie might prefer 
The grip, bad as it is, who knows, 

To these lines I write her. 

I'll stop right here. Why speak about 
That heart of mine? Ah! let 

It break. Who cares? Without a doubt 
Our one thought is — Annette. 

For she's down with la-grippe : therefore 
We all are quite " upset ". 

May Heaven soon to health restore 
Our dearest girl — Annette. 



RECOVERED. 

Annette now is happily o'er 
The grip ; she is with us once more. 
She's come back less robust, 
But her lost strength, we trust, 
Will soon be restored in the store. 



I WON'T TELL HER NAME. 323 

A Song 

As sung on one memorable occasion in Stokeson's 
Mushroom-Annex. 

I think it is nice — yes, I think it is bliss 

To work in a place as pleasant as this : 

Where all are so kind the work seems like play, 

And our lives are made bright with new blessings each day. 

The sweet friendly feeling pervading the place 

Enchants every one, fills each worker with grace. 

And now I'm so glad that to this place I came 

Because of some one, but I won't tell her name : 

No, I won't tell her name: I won't tell her name. 



-") 



Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, 
Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 

Time never can weaken those ties strong and dear 
Of friendship and love that are daily formed here: 
Yes, the hearts that in this seed-establishment beat 
Know a rapture that makes life especially sweet. 
One can find in the store more true pleasure and mirth 
Than anywhere else on the face of the earth. 

! 'tis good to be here : if I never came 

1 would never have met — but I won't tell her name. 
No, I won't tell her name : I won't tell her name. 

Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, 
Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 



324 I won't tell her name. 

When awearied, as sometimes may happen, we need 

But turn to our nearest co-worker to read 

In his or her face a sympathy keen 

That throws a bright glamour of joy o'er the scene. 

There are smiles to encheer us should we feel depressed : 

And O ! there is nothing so lovely and blest 

As a smile. Ah, like that one which yesternight came 

On the face of — but no, no : I won't tell her name. 

I won't tell her name : no, I won't tell her name. 

Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, 
Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 

A few days ago, to be candid with you, 
I felt rather gloomy, in fact I felt blue : 
For something occurred, I need not say what, 
That seemed to increase the gloom of my lot. 
But some one came to me and thus she did say : — 
" To sorrow, my friend, you had better not give way." 
She cheered me so much — this sweet, lovely dame. 
But I won't tell her name, no, I won't tell her name. 
I won't tell her name: no, I won't tell her name. 

Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, 
Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 

If Strokes — our friend Strokes — were to hear me thus sing 

He might not think it was exactly the thing : 

Perhaps he would tell me to hire a hall : 

I think I shall do so and invite you there all. 

Or on the stage in the footlight's bright glare 

I'll sing of this girl who is so sweet and fair, 

And singing of her may win me great fame ; 

But I won't tell her name, no, I won't tell her name. 

I won't tell her name : no, I won't tell her name. 

Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, 
Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 



I won't tell her name. 325 

You may not believe it, but yet it is so, 

That I once appeared in the great Barnum-show : 

Before clerking here I was considered a star, 

I could hang by my heels from the top trapeze-bar. 

I was then very highly accomplished you see, 

But work in the office has since weakened me. 

Lofty stunts I can't do now : it does seem a shame, 

But yet to this place I am glad that I came 

Because of — but no, no, I won't tell her name. 

Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, 
Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 

The girl that I love is the star of my life : 

Some day I shall ask her to be my dear wife : 

For I may say here I am very sure 

That life without her I can never endure. 

And so if she refuses me I'll blow out my brains: 

Perhaps the girl will vi^eep over my remains, 

And then the way she treated me may seem a great shame. 

But I won't tell her name, no, I won't tell her name. 

I won't tell her name : no, I won't tell her name. 

Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, 
Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 

Singing topical songs is not quite my forte, 

I have warbled sufficient, and therefore I ought 

To let others sing who more clearly can show 

The charms of this girl whom I worship so. 

Her eyes they are bright and her lips they are red. 

All the blood in my body for her I would shed. 

Yes for one so adorable I would die game, 

But I won't tell her name, no, I won't tell her name. 

I won't tell her name : no, I won't tell her name. 

Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, 
Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 



326 AN AFTERNOON'S STROLL. 



A SENSATIONAL SONG AND DANCE. 

As rendered in the Potato Vaults with great success by the 
author and his able colleague in vaudeville. 

The other afternoon at the hour of four 

George and I said good-by to our friends in the store : 

We went for a walk, the weather was clear, 

We dropped in a saloon and we called out for beer : 

Several schooners were brought, we emptied them all. 

Then George began singing " After the Ball " : 

I joined in the — hie — chorus, I think — hie — George was tight. 

But when I said so, why, he wanted to fight: 

Yes, when I said so he — hie — wanted to fight. 

Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, 
Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 

So I bloodied his nose, he blackened my eye : 

For the police the bartender loudly did cry. 

We took a ride that night at the city's expense. 

And were fined the next morning for our little offense. 

We paid the fine like men, left the court arm in arm. 

And declared that this life on the earth was a charm. 

We promenaded the streets till the hour of noon, 

And then we dropped into another saloon : 

Yes, then we dropped into another saloon. 

Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, 
Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 

A week after that we went back to the store, 

Mr. Stokeson was standing in front of the door, 

He said that if we were inclined to drink beer 

We better work at Burpee's, or else go with Drear : 

He said that he didn't want us at all. 

Told us to go with Lanbreth, or else go with Mawle : 

He assured us he wanted no men of our ilk. 

That he had supplied our places with tho':e who drank milk : 

That he had supplied our places with those who drank milk. 

Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, 
Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 



AN afternoon's STROLL. 327 

Mr. Stokeson named others, he mentioned Meshell, 

Told us to go thither or else go to — well, 

He did not say where, but we could surmise 

That the place he referred to was not in the skies. 

So we turned from the store : we two who aspired 

To be in the firm some fine day were now " fired ". 

Of course we felt sad, so we each dropped a tear : 

We were filled with emotion — yes, and soon filled with beer, 

For ere parting we blew in our last plunks on beer. 

Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, 
Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 

I've been looking for work at every seed place, 

They don't seem to be stuck on my shape or my face. 

Th's look'ng for work is pleasant — I don't think. 

I really believe it will drive me to drink. 

Had I the price of a drink now you bet I know where 

To drown all my trouble, my sorrow and care : 

But alas ! I'm dead broke, this fact is quite clear, 

I am looking for work and also looking for beer: 

Yes, I'm looking for work, but I prefer beer. 

Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, 
Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 



328 PINAFORE. 

As revised and adopted by members of the 

Noonday Social Circle 

At one of their symposiums in the 

Bean Department. 

Selection — " When I was a Boy." 

Characters introduced — Sir Joseph Porter and Cousin Hebe. 

Impersonations by C. P. and Miss . 

Sir Jos. When I was a boy I was very cute and sweet, 
I played in the gutter, I lived upon the street; 
I never told a lie. O me ! but I was good ; 
In fact I was the idol of the neighborhood. 

Hebe. In fact he was the idol of the neighborhood. 

Sir Jos. I used to chew gum till my jaws got sore, 

And now I keep the books in a Market street store. 

Hebe. He used to chew gum till his jaws got sore, 

And now he keeps the books in a Market street store. 

[_Both dance.J 

Sir Jos. When I grew up I guzzled malt beer, 

So they sent me to jail several times a year; 
At last, being very fend of jokes. 
They apprenticed me to Mister Strokes. 

Hebe. They apprenticed him to Mister Strokes. 

Sir Jos. And now they like me so much, you see, 

They have placed me in an office where it's nice to be. 

Hebe. Yes, now they like him so much, you see, 

They have placed him in an office where it's nice to be. 

\_Both dance.'\ 



PINAFORE REVISED. 329 

^jV Jos. The other day I got too gay, 

So they sent for a cop to take me away, 
But they missed me so when I was gone 
That they called me back the very next morn. 

Hebe. Yes, they called him back the very next morn. 

Sir Jos. I've been somewhat dazed since I came back. 

For the cop knocked me silly with his black-jack. 

Hebe. He's been somewhat dazed since he came back. 

For the cop knocked him silly with his black-jack. 

{_Both dance.'] 

Sir Jos. Now all young men, whoever you may be, 
If you wish to get in an office just like me, 
Drink plenty of beer and never tell a lie. 
And you will be here by and by. 

Hebe. Yes, here or in jail by and by. 

Dialogue. 

Sir Jos. Cousin Hebe, you should stick to the text — not misquote 
me. You fail to realize the subtle significance of this 
ethical act of ours. I am endeavoring to inculcate on 
the minds of the young men present the fact that by 
emulating me they will eventually be rewarded by ob- 
taining a position, perhaps as high as mine, in the 
office of this particular establishment. 

Hebe. Pardon my seeming frivolity. Sir Joseph, and let us re- 
peat the last lines of our stunt — I mean our ethical act. 

\_They resume the song."] 

Sir Jos. Now — as I've said — never, never tell a lie, 
And you may be here by and by. 

Hebe. Yes, you may be here by and by. 



330 art's artifices. 

Sir Jos. Be careful to dance the tra la, la lee 

{_He dances.'] 
And you'll surely be in an office just like me. 

Hebe. Yes, dance this tra la, la, lee with vim 

\_She dances.'] 
And you'll surely get in an office just like him. 

[Spurred on by the vociferous applause of their audi- 
ence, they both dance very vigorously in the arena 
formed by the bean-sacks.] 

Sir Jos. 'Tis almost one, and I fear the gong 

Will cut me short in the midst of my song, 

So if you wish to hear me sing more 

You must wait until we meet on the beautiful shore. 

Hebe. You must wait until we meet on the beautiful shore. 

Sir Jos. I really and truly believe that I 

Will have more time to sing in the sweet by and by. 

Hebe. He really and truly believes. Oh my ! 

That he'll have more time to sing in the sweet by and by. 

\_Exeunt, both dancing.] 



ART'S ARTIFICES. 

The lines which on this page appear 
Do not point a moral, 'tis clear. 

It is quite evident 

They are no ornament ; 
But they fill space, that's why they are here. 

When space is unoccupied I 

Fill the void, so to speak. That is why 

I most always stick 

In a slight limer'ck : 
It is such easy verce to supply. 



PARTNERSHIP PROSPECTS. 331 

{Suggested when working over the third stanza of the poem 
Vague Vaporings.) 

Had I served Trade's god with the zeal 

I served fair Poesy I'm sure 
I'd not now in my old age feel 

(This sounds like Woisey) so blame poor. 

Yet, while not in the firm, I can 

Say that I'm not what one may term 

A superannuated man ; 

I'm very glad I'm not infirm. 

My heart is not yet ossified ; 

Still through my arteries the warm 
Blood circulates. I'll put aside 

For future use the chloroform. 

My mind and brain are clear ; my arm 
Is strong — not quite as supple though; 

But life has not yet lost its charm. 
And so the hemlock I'll forego. 

The future's mine ! Hope, sir, appears 

As friendly now as when she stood 
By me in those departed years. 

! I may yet — don't scoflf — make good. 

Being, then, ablebodied still 

(0! say not that my star has set) 
It is quite likely that I will 

By chucking poetry get there yet. 

I must divorce myself from rhyme — 

An art I have been wedded to. 
When in the firm I'll have more time 

To court the Muse ; till then, adieu. 

Adieu ! The luring call of rhyme 

1 must ignore, nor dare I dip 

In verse till I ('twill come in time) 
Am taken into partnership. 



332 INJUSTICE. 

Till then I'll curb my roving-soul. 

My restless spirit I shall quell ; 
I'll metaphorically roll 

Up my shirt-sleeves and work like . 

When I'm a partner then, of course, 

I can make up for all the time 
Wasted in work ; yes, when I'm boss 

I'll pass my days just writing rhyme. 

A sign that reads Phillips and — who?, 

Dealers in — let's say Artichokes, 
Shall be flung 'cross the avenue. 

Won't it look well — Phillips and S * * * * *? 

Then I shall be a man of means, 

Whose fame extends beyond the seas, 

A specialist in Lima Beans, 
And an authority on Peas. 

Anticipatively these days 

(Ah! much of truth is found in jokes) 
On that emblazoned sign I gaze — 
That sign which reads :— PHILLIPS & S * * * * =^ ! 



INJUSTICE. 

Certain connoisseurs cannot commend 
My verses, at least they pretend 

To see nothing in them ; 

And so they condemn 
Those lines which they can't comprehend. 

A genius, though, is not long 
Kept down by injustice and wrong. 

I shall not despair ; 

I'll (this aint hot air) 
Dazzle earth yet with a grand, sweet song. 



MY BEAU. 333 

A BRIEF ROMANCE OF A FAIR YOUNG HADDONIlIi. 

Supposed to have been written by Miss -, 

I have the proper sort of beau, 

He says I'm more to him than life: 

On me he freely spends his dough, 
He wants me to become his wife. 

I am inclined to think that he 

Is Mr. Right all right, all right. 
He positively worships me : 

He calls upon me every night. 

He gives me many costly things, 

He brings me jewelry galore: 
He loads my hands with diamond-rings, 

He buys me bracelets by the score. 

My beau takes me to all the shows : 

He's just sent me a seal-skin sack. 
He constantly on me bestows 

Rare flowers, books and bric-a-brac. 

He has commissioned Laurent's to 

Keep me supplied with choicest sweets: 

Such things, he knows, I like to chew 
Whilst checking up the order sheets. 

O ! he's dead stuck on me all right : 

Why, in a letter he said I 
Was his Angelic Camdenite 

For whom he willingly would die. 

There's not a wish I have but what 

That beau of mine anticipates. 
Next spring he'll sail me in his yacht 

To lands where Joy for us awaits. 



334 MY BEAU. 

On Sunday afternoons in his 
Best automobile we are seen : 

On Haddon Avenue we whiz 
Along by means of gasoline. 

For me the Muse he oft invokes, 
He raves in verse about my charms. 

He'd call here, if allowed by Strokes, 
To fold me daily in his arms. 

Yes, many calls, did Strokes permit, 
My friend would at the seed-house pay: 

'T would be a joy for him to sit 

At my feet through the whole long day. 

He must defer, though, that rare bliss 
Till evening. Ah, then when we meet 

He presses on my lips a kiss — 
One so ecstatically sweet ! 

Love ! O how much it brightens life ! 

What joy to one's heart it doth give! 
I am — just think — to be his wife 

Before the lilacs bloom this spring. 

What visions of delight appear 
To me as I with rapture gaze 

Into the future. O ! how dear 

Are these love-lighted winter days. 

He says I am divinely tall. 

My eyes are stars, my teeth are pearl. 
And that he never loved at all 

Until he met his Jersey girl. 

My lips like red, red roses are ; 

(He means in color I suppose.) 
In fact, he even goes so far 

As to write sonnets to my nose. 



MY BEAU. 335 

A noble brow, he says, is mine, 

A forehead beautifully fair ; 
But O ! most glorious and divine 

Is my great wealth of raven hair. 

He swore I had a brainy head, 

A dainty waist, (the nsrve of him!) 

He also (ought I tell it?) said 
My ankles were so neat and trim. 

The compliments he pays are true : 

My worth he very clearly sees. 
It's nice to have a lover who 

Thus understands my qualities. 

This Tuesday evening he became 

Most eloquent : he deeply sighed. 
Then begged me on his knees to name 

The day when I would be his bride. 

He seized my hands and pleaded so. 

That I was just about to say 
Let's wed to-morrow, when my beau 

Evanished in the air away. 

My sweetheart disappeared. I had — 
Girl-like — been dreaming in my room : 

And now, alas! I'm very sad: 
I sit alone here in the gloom. 

No more his thrilling voice into 

My listening ear breathes vows of love — 

The olden joy, yet ever new. 

That had its birth in heaven above. 

From sight, but O ! not from my mind. 

My gallant friend has passed away. 
I waken now, ah me ! to find 

A world unblest by Love's bright ray. 



336 what's the use ! 

Fate mocks at me in my despair : 

My woman's heart is rent in twain. 
Can I — can I this sorrow bear? 

! shall I ever smile again? 

My lover's gone, my dream is o'er : 

1 scarcely can indite these rhymes. 
I think to-morrow at the store 

I'll shed a tear or two at times. 



A CAUTIOUS MAN. 

I'm a cautious man, and lately 
I have acted most sedately ; 
For frivolity is greatly 

Out of place I feel : and so 
I shall walk with circumspection, 
I'll do naught without reflection, 
Lest a critical inspection 

Of my life some faults might show. 



WHAT'S THE USE. 

I'd kick the chandelier. 
Or " walk off on my ear ", 

E'en " shoot the hat ", 
If her regard I'd gain, 
Or her love could obtain 

By doing that. 

What is the use, though, in 
Doing these things to win 

A woman fair, 
Who might, when her love wanes. 
Give me for all my pains. 

An icy stare? 



STANZAS SENT STROKES' SEED STORE. 337 

Ah ! many thoughts are running through 
My mind on this eve of a new 

Year — Nineteen-ten : 
Thoughts of old friends, of life — that part 
I spent down in the city's heart, 

'Mong busy men. 

It seems now the old neighborhood 
Around Christ Church I've left for good; 

I would, therefore, 
Express this wish — the wish that I 
Shall be remembered kindly by 

Those in the store. 

I not unfrequently recall 

My recent co-mates, one and all, 

In bulbs and seeds ; 
And my heart oft with rapture thrills 
When thinking of The Wabash Mills 

And — Archie Meeds. 

When, retrospectively, I gaze 
Back on the old evanished days, 

What mem'ries come 
Thronging into my mind ! Yes, what 
Fond memories ! But I must not 

Get tiresome. 

What careless rhymes I'm writing here ! 
Ah ! some may think that I am " queer ". 

He who invokes 
The Muse is most unbusinesslike. 
I wonder how these rhymes will strike 

Friend Walter Strokes ! 

Others have twitted me sometimes 
For venturing to deal in rhymes. 

Is it a fault — 
A grievous fault to soar into 
Fancy's vast realm as poets do? 

But what says "Walt"? 



338 STANZAS SENT STROKES' SEED STORE. 

Will he these idle lines condemn? 
Will he have time to look at them? 

Yes, maybe so. 
Yes, for the sake of auld lang syne 
These well-intentioned lines of mine 

He'll read, I know. 

In Traffic's quarter, it appears, 
One must be careful ; I for years 

Held, in a store, 
My soul in leash. But now, ye gods ! 
I'll do just like the higher bards — 

I'll let it soar! 

Bold? Yes, I'm very, very bold; 
Quite so — on paper, be it told. 

But otherwise 
I am particularly mild — 
As mild, almost, as any child 

Beneath the skies. 

I can right valorously wield 
A pen, but on a battle-field 

I'd faint, I think. 
I wouM not like to shed my gore, 
Though I don't mind how I outpour 

My soul — and ink. 

Yet life, as we may truly say, 
Is a real battle, and some day 

On its field all 
Must yield the ghost. The sword and pen 
Will from the tired hands of men 

Drop at Death's call. 

But come. I did not mean to be, 
So sorrowful ; no, no, let me 

A note more gay 
Strike on my lyre, so to speak. 
The world is happy; let us seek 

Its joys today. 



STANZAS SENT STROKES' SEED STORE. 339 

I never was a man of deeds 

Like Wilson, Taft, and Strokes, and Meeds. 

It rather looks 
As though they'll ne'er place on my brow 
The victor's crown. I write rhymes now. 

I once kept books. 

Ambition ! No. I am content 
To dabble in mere sentiment — 

To dream, to weave 
Strange fancies, to let memory 
Bring some of life's bright scenes to me 

This New Year's eve. 

Towards my late comrades I have none 
But friendly feelings ; may each one 

Meet with success. 
To all — from Boss to office boy — 
I wish long life, good health, and joy, 

And happiness. 

We may not all be millionaires 

[I'm told that even they have cares — 

Perhaps they do] 
But we may all find life to be 
Worth living if to ourselves we 

Prove ever true. 

But I should cut these verses short. 
I've said enough ; no doubt I ought 

Apologize. 
Sometimes I don't know when to end. 
But, really, I did not intend 

To moralize. 



340 REBUFFED. 

I am a poor relation 

Of a man most high in station : 
He runs a lift at Jimble's — runs it purely for his health: 

I am proud of him, and one day, 

I believe it was a Monday, 
Being short of cash, I called upon this gentleman of wealth. 

I approached his elevator. 

He received me with a greater 
Show of cordiality than was expected, but when I 

Mildly touched him for a dollar. 

He reached out and grabbed my collar. 
Then with me he mopped the store up till I thought that I would 
die. 

I arose somewhat disjointed. 

And I might say disappointed. 
From the aisle where he last chucked me : I could not repress a 
groan. 

Riding homeward in a trolley 

I felt very melancholy. 
When I'm next in need of money I'll let relatives alone. 



A NAUTICAL TWIST. 

A jolly tar stood in the bow 

Of a ship that was maining the plough — 

I mean ploughing the main. 

I'm no sailor, 'tis plain. 
I get twisted on sea-terms somehow. 



JERSEY FAIRS. 341 

With the laudable motive of making the drink habit more safe 
and more respectable, the Subway Tavern, as they styled it, was 
introduced. It was thought that these taverns, in which pure 
liquors (soft and strong) were to be dispensed at reasonable rates, 
under Christian management, would improve the morals of the 
community while at the same time realizing its promoters about 
six per cent on their money outlay. Many approved of these 
prayer-opened saloons, others disapproved considering them as a 
compromise with evil. The experiment did not succeed, and was 
finally given up. It was while these subway taverns were run- 
ning, in 1904, that the following verses were written. 

I am, let me say, a square man ; 

Well, at least I am a " Fair " man. 
At Mt. Holly and at Trenton when the leaves begin to fall. 

And the frost is on the pumpkins. 

It is then the country bumpkins 
Flock around my booth, for ! I am the idol of them all. 

I at times like much to frolic 

With my customers bucolic. 
And adown the pike with them I very often promenade : 

I tip them on all the races. 

After which I seek those places 
Known as consecrated bar-rooms, where I call for lemonade. 

When I thus am out a-drinking, 
Should I happen, without thinking, 

To vibrate my optic-lid while ordering tea or some such drink, 
I feel sure that Preacher Hotair 
Would not blame me, for he's got a 

Lot of sense and knows, like me, the worth of a sub-rosa wink. 

Winking surely has its uses : 

Yes, it frequently produces 
Favors from a pretty woman or a bartender when we 

Do not wish that those about us 

Should have any cause to doubt us 
When we preach, as oft we do, on virtue and sobriety. 



342 LINES 



TO E W W . 

O ! believe me, Stella Peeler, 

There are moments when I feel a 
Very strange kind of sensation in the region of my heart. 

Is it love or indigestion? 

Pray, do not evade the question : 
I am dying for the knowledge you — you only — can impart. 

It is not, I know, the fashion 

For a Poetess of Passion 
To give serious attention to a query such as mine : 

But a case like like this, revealing 

Such intensity of feeling, 
Cannot fail to draw from you at least one sweet and soulful line. 



LINES 

TO A L 



Have they for us poor rhyming dubs 
A private graveyard, Mr. Nubbs, 

Where, when we've been laid out w"th clubs, 
They take and plant us, Mr. Nubbs? 



WAS IT WRONG? 

Maud sang a song most sweetly. Was it wrong 
To call it, as I did, a Maud-lin song? 



MY ARTISTIC SOUL. 343 

A critic once said I wrote trash : 
The remark cut my soul like a lash. 

But then what the deuce 

Need I care for abuse, 
When my rhymes (sometimes) bring me in cash? 

My artistic soul is not quite 
So sensitive now to a slight: 

I no longer quail 

When press censors rail 
At the verses I venture to write. 

If an editor happens to kick 

Me down stairs or hurl at me a brick, 

When upon him I call, 

I don't mind it at all ; 
I the next time mail my limerick. 



LOVE'S SACRIFICE. 

O ! I could die rhyming for Maud. 
Indeed, if my death would afford 

Her joy, I'd not stop 

These lines till I'd drop 
Stone dead on the green grassy sward. 



WHAT LOVE CAN DO. 

In all crimes he was deeply dyed ; 

He had, in fact, no character ; 
He gambled, drank, swore, stole and lied, 

Until he happened to see her. 

And she reformed the man, and then 
He married her, yes, and in time 

Became a useful citizen. 

And made a living writing rhyme. 



344 A WOMAN'S IDEAL MAN. 

I really do not feel 

I am any one's ideal. 
No woman ever yet regarded me 

As something to adore. 

I cannot state, therefore, 
Exactly what a hero's traits should be. 

To be the ideal of 

The girls — to have them love 

And idolize you might suit some first-rate. 
Such popularity 
Does not appeal to me : 

It would disturb my mind's quiescent state. 



SOLICITOUS INQUIRIES. 

How's your terpsichorean toe? 
Twirlish as usual, Miss Pitcoe? 

Do you play diabolo? 

Tell me, tell me, Miss Pitcoe. 

How about your latest beau — 
Does he please you. Miss Pitcoe? 

If you scorned him would he blow 
Out his brains then. Miss Pitcoe? 

If he did, ah ! then how ro- 
Mantic 'twould be, Miss Pitcoe. 

Well, at rhyming I'm not slow; 
Do you doubt it, Miss Pitcoe? 

Oh ! forever I could go 

On like this for Miss Pitcoe. 

Any individual, though. 

Might rhyme thus for Miss Pitcoe. 

My heart's in it : hence this flow 
Of verse is easy, Miss Pitcoe. 

Lest in it I put also 

My foot, I'll stop now, Miss Pitcoe. 



THAT SWEETHEART OF MINE. 345 

Unlike Austin, I'm no wearer 
Of the laurel, but whene'er a 
Girl as lovely as is Sarah 
Asks for rhymes I can't decline 
Her request. Nay, I'm no poet, 
My lines very plainly show it, 
Yet, like this, though, I can go it 
For that dear sweetheart of mine. 

Where can there be found a rarer 
Little beauty than my Sarah? 

! there never lived a fairer 
Girl nor one quite as divine. 

1 could, were I but a rhymer 

Like " Rud " Kipling, write sublimer 
Lines than these at any time or 
Place for that sweetheart of mine. 



FAIR FLOSSIE. 

I walk aimlessly to and fro 

On the street, knowing not where to go 

Alone in the crowd 

My soul cries aloud 
For a star — aye, for Flossie Friskoe. 

From Roxboro to Bufifalo 
'Twere hard to find any one so 

Alluringly sweet 

And so dainty and neat 
As the far-famed fair Flossie Friskoe. 



346 GIP.LS. 

I know a very bright 

And winsome Camdenite, 
She's kind and true and ne'er a duty shirks, 

I likewise know of one 

Dear girl in Kensington, 
Who 'mid the looms in that mill-district works. 

And O ! I know a third 

Sweet thing, and she's a bird 
Of gorgeous plumage ; she, of course, is found 

Across the Schuylkill, where 

The fairest of the fair 
Do, as some judges seem to think, abound. 

At times I think most of 

My Kensingtonian love. 
But oft I pine for her who lives more west. 

Occasionally I 

For Camden's goddess sigh. 
I don't know which of these girls I like best. 



A CONSIDERATE MAN. 

If the angels should happen to hear 
Me sing, I have reason to fear 

It would cause them to weep : 

So I frequently keep 
Very still, just to spare them a tear. 



MILTON. 

The epics and odes I compose 
Are not as fine, some think, as those 
Milton wrote. Well, John has 
Done some real good work, as 
His " Paradise Lost " clearly shows. 



SOME SIMPLE STANZAS SENT SARAH SLIMCOE. 347 

When I play poker stakes are low. 
Am I too weak-nerved, Miss Slimcoe? 

I could of course say high, but O ! 
There'd be no rhyme then, Miss Slimcoe. 

In poetry one must oft forego 
Telling the real truth, Miss Slimcoe. 

I don't mean lie : O I dear me, no. 
Just — er — dissemble. Miss Slimcoe. 

One's art (mine's verse!) demands, you know. 
Such sacrifices, Miss Slimcoe. 

Consign me, pray, to Jericho 

If my verse bores you, IVliss Slimcoe. 

Before you bid me thither go 
Smile once upon me. Miss Slimcoe. 

P'rown — and I'm " broke " ; but smile, and lo ! 
The world is mine then. Miss Slimcoe. 

Your smile 'mid purgatorial woe 
I shall remember, Miss Slimcoe. 

That smile, whene'er recalled, will throw 
Me into transports. Miss Slimcoe. 

Ah ! then the very imps below 
Will envy me, fair Miss Slimcoe. 

My ! that sounds very much like Poe. 
Do you not think so, Miss Slimcoe. 

The world assuredly doth owe 
Much to us poets. Miss Slimcoe. 



348 OPERA PASSES. 

We serve to — er — uplift, you know, 
Humanity, fair Miss Slimcoe. 

We find it hard in doing so 

To pay our board-bills, Miss Slimcoe. 

Why, as a rule, are poets so 
Impecunious, Miss Slimcoe? 

To wallow, as it were, in " dough " 
Is not for us : nay. Miss Slimcoe. 

Ah ! how to love is all we know : 
To love — and suffer, Miss Slimcoe. 

Love — no, I'll close now else you'll grow 
Aweary of me, Miss Slimcoe. 

Then, mayhap, you will not bestow 
The smile I covet, Miss Slimcoe. 



OPERA PASSES. 

When I (which is seldom) secure 
A pass for the opera, I'm sure 

To then patronize. 

As you may surmise, 
The show — that is, if it is pure. 

Sometimes I discover, alas ! 

That certain shows are not first-class. 

I should such shows shun ; 

But politeness bids one 
Accept and make use of a pass. 



VAGUE VAPORINGS. 349 

A bright lemon or a light lime 

To bards who live in the limelight 
Should be given when they write rhyme, 

Provided, of course, they rhyme right. 

Skilled seamstresses swiftly sew seams. 

A clever line — yes, it seems so. 
I'd be foolish if I dreamt no dreams, 

For there's so much that I — in dreams — know. 

Dream knowledge is rot — this term we 
Well use. Work gains the goal we term 

Success; if alert and firm, the 

Goal's won. No, I'm not in the firm. 

This silliness I should forego, 

Else those whom it shocks might go for 

My scalp. No doubt I'd have more show 
If of common sense I show more. 



AT THE LUNCH COUNTER. 

" What would you like?" "Like! A beefsteak 
And some champagne, but they're too dear ; 

'Twere best to ask ' what will you take '. 
Waiter, bring me some krout and beer." 

Life is so serious that it 

Might not be right to jest like this; 
But yet sometimes a little bit 

Of nonsense may not be amiss. 

And truths are often said in jest. 

A moral might be drawn here: 
'Tis this — that life may be found blest 

By those who order krout and beer. 



350 A TRUE TALE. 

This is a true tale of 

A youth who fell, 
Alas ! too much in love 

With a young belle. 

The belle was rich ; her Pa 
Was proud, therefore 

He kicked the poor youth far 
From his front-door. 

The youth, though poor, was game ; 

With courage rare 
He limped away ; became 

A millionaire. 

Returned in after years 

To the homestead ; 
His parents were in tears. 

They thought him dead. 

He bought them autocars, 

An aeroplane, 
Steam yachts, high-grade cigars, 

Tuns of champagne. 

And then he thought awhile 

Of her, and all 
His love came back. Gads ! I'll 

Pay her a call. 

By that door from which he, 

Ten years ago, 
Darted so hurriedly. 

Helped by Pa's toe. 

He stood ; this time no fear 
His mind oppressed ; 

He clasped at last her dear 
Form to his breast. 

Papa came in, he seemed 

Now reconciled ; 
Forgave the youth, and beamed 

Upon his child. 

" Accept," the father said, 
" My blessing, pray." 

These two fond souls will wed 
Without delay. 



MORALIZING. 351 

The verses hereabouts may be 

More frivolous than those elsewhere, 

Yet of life's stern reality 

The writer is full well aware. 

Inclined to take then, as he is. 

Grave views of life, some readers here 

Might pause and marvel ; surely his 
Apparent levity seems queer. 

And yet why queer? Have not grave men 
Indulged in quips? Do jests denote 

A care-free mind? One may joke when 
He grasps a knife to cut his throat. 

No reader therefore should suppose 
That he who writes thus carelessly 

Has steered clear of all earthly woes. 
Life is, he knows, no comedy. 

No comedy ! True, very true. 

But why be downcast? Why assume 
That it is wrong and sinful to 

Laugh as we journey towards the tomb. 

When our risibilities 

Are moved there is no harm in laughter. 
Laugh then, in this life, when we please; 

We may not get a chance hereafter. 

Not mirth-provoking are these quips. 
To read them may not be worth while ; 

Yet to some reader's kindly lips 

Perhaps they'll bring a passing smile. 

If they do not, no harm is done — 

No harm, save just some misspent time 

Expended on some so-called fun 

Expressed in alleged forms of rhyme. 



352 DIVERSE VIEWS. 

That certain readers will not quite 
Endorse some of my views I know ; 

And yet these same views others might 
Think perfectly conime il jaut. 

[I like to get off a French phrase; 

With many folks this makes a hit ; 
Though when from one's own tongue one strays 

One's apt to put his foot in it.] 

This parenthetic clause excuse. 

Ere thus digressing I meant to 
Have asked, when some oppose the views 

Others think right, what should one do. 

Why to the Grundys of the earth 

Should we so cravenly defer? 
Why stifle at their very birth 

The sentiments that in us stir? 

When one is seized with an idea, 

Whose propagation seems to be 
Essential to mankind, why fear 

To give it full publicity? 

Should one be dumb because one knows 
That thoughts, when uttered, oft offend? 

By this course one might make no foes, 
But would it tend to gain a friend? 



STRANGE. 

Sometimes, despite all that I do 
To versify in a way to 

Delight judges who 

My stanzas review, 
I fail. This seems strange, but 'tis true. 



A LOST THOUGHT. 353 

A brilliant thought occurred to me one day, 

But O ! I failed to note it on a pad ; 
Later the thought passed fro-m my mind away, 

I now cannot recall it, hence I'm sad. 

Yet why should I my loss so deprecate? 

The thought, indeed, was brilliant and sublime, 
But to the world I could — I'm free to state — 

Never present it in becoming rhyme. 

Of what use is a thought when it can not 
Be given to the world ? Yet there's no great 

Dearth now of thoughts; the jaded world has got 
More now than it can well assimilate. 



SUPPLIED. 

I have a space to fill 

With rhyme, it needs but two 
Short stanzas, yet these will 

Be difficult to do. 

In vain I cudgel my 

Brains for a thought or two ; 
The needed stanzas I 

Cannot — ah ! these may do ! 



THE NON-ESSENTIALITY OF THOUGHT IN 
THE CONSTRUCTION OF POETRY. 

Thinking is not conducive to 

Perfection and sublimity 
When writing verse; my " impromptu" 

I wrote almost unconsciously. 

Yes, often when I scarcely tried 
I've written with surprising grace. 

Mark the rare beauty of " Supplied ", 
Which I dashed oE to fill some space. 



354 GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? 

The lines in this book indicate 
That I am no real poet, yet 

Despite the fact, I perpetrate 
Sometimes an ode or triolet. 

At least I try but don't succeed 
In perpetrating odes ; and hence, 

As I am guiltless, there's no need 
To charge me, then, with an offense. 

Sins of commission seem worse than 
Those of omission ; in law none 

Is held a culprit who doth plan 
A crime, if that crime be not done. 

One's deed is judged but not one's will; 

Yet the will may, in point of fact, 
Be reprehensible, but still 

The world notes but the overt act. 

Yet, in a sense, those who fail to 
Perform the evil they devise 

Are no whit better than those who 
Do wrong. But then why moralize? 



'TWAS NEVER MEANT. 

'Twas never meant that I should be 
Quite as imperious and great 

As Caesar, but I live, and he 

Is dead ; so I'll not rail at fate. 

It's really good to be alive. 
For life is pleasant after all. 

Death waits us, still we may derive 
Some joy here ere he pays his call. 



A WARNING. 355 

When I left my alma mater, I mean the public-school, 
Which I attended for a term, the future then to me 

Looked very bright ; no ripple stirred life's calm and tranquil pool. 
This third line may mean nothing, but I like its euphony. 

Nor drink nor dissipation, (very few wild oats I sowed), 

But rhyme it was that floored me — yes, 'twas chiefly rhyme no 
doubt. 

Let those young men now journeying on life's hope-lighted road 
Take warning, or their later days may find them down and out. 

If I cherished fond ambitions in those days now gone by. 

If I e'er hoped to gain — which may have been the case one 
time — 

Success in business life, those hopes of mine were wrecked when I 
That fatal day first plunged into the whirling stream of rhyme. 

Perhaps not rhyme alone has cast me on the shoals of fate ; 

My obtuseness, probably, and lack of business qualities, 
Combined with certain other failings, managed to frustrate 

My plans, and I am now a derelict upon life's seas.* 

But ne'ertheless 'twas chiefly rhyme that brought me, as I've said. 
To what I am; and so again I would advise young men. 

Who wish success, to cut out rhyme and give their time instead 
To something else — say business ; they'll all be successful then. 



A TRIBUTE TO WOMEN. 

Women are not at the bottom of all folly and all crime ; 

It is unjust to say that they drive many men to drink. 
Believe me, it was not a woman that brought me to rhyme. 

To blame the sex for our delinquencies is wrong I think. 

In those early days of youthhood it was not a woman whose 
Ripening charms bewildered and inflamed my soul and brain. 

No woman ruled my will when first I called upon the Muse, 
But her power subsequently I, alas ! could not restrain. 

* Editor's Note. — Poets are apt sometimes to express themselves too hyperbol- 
ically. The author's present condition is not, we believe, as bad as might be inferred 
from this poem, yet his warning to young men was doubtless given in all sincerity, 
for the lines appear to have been written with much earnestness. 



356 ETERNITY. 

Eternity means — er — well, I 
Can't fathom it, so I'll not try. 
It is a mystery 
That is too deep for me, 
And so into it I shan't pry. 

An abler man in my stead 
Should tackle the subject, and shed 
Some light on the same. 
And thereby gain fame. 
I'm sleepy, let me go to bed. 

Yes, I'll stop ; for it doesn't look well 
On a theme of this import to dwell 
Thus lightly; they'll say 
I am flippant, which may 
Prove a charge rather hard to repel. 



I DO NOT KNOW. 

I wonder, were I to drop dead, 

(This is not funny — don't think so) 

Would any tears for me be shed. 
I dO' not know, I do not know ! 



FOOLISHNESS. 

Am I foolish? Well, say, sir, in the 
Core of that heart which throbs now in me 
There's a secret — a dear 
One, which makes life appear 
So sweet. Am I foolish? Maybe. 



TO A. L. T. OF THE BULLETIN. 357 

An acknowledgment of the return of some manuscripts rejected 
because of their " unavailability ". 

My rhymes he remorselessly spurns. 
I wish I could write like Bob Burns, 

Or like Byron or Moore; 

But I can't, and therefore 
Those verses of mine he returns. 

When one does the best that he can 
Is he any less of a man? 

Is he less of a bard 

If to rhyme he tries hard? 
Why then put him under the ban? 

" A man's a man " — but in this note 
It were worse than useless to quote. 

It seems " The Bulletin " 

Has for me " got it in," 
Notwithstanding what Bobbie Burns wrote. 

But I jest. There are editors who 
Are kindly. I know one or two. 

I don't, let me add. 

Feel slighted or sad 
Because some of my rhymes would not do. 



THE MIND 

I could, if I had the mind to. 

Write like Austin and Kipling. How true 

This is. Yes, I find 

That I have not the mind, 
Which is needed, to write as they do. 

However, I'm somewhat consoled 
By knowing these two brave and bold 

British poets are quite 

Unable to write 
As I do : this truth should be told. 



358 A COLD WORLD. 

The world presents me no bouquets ; 

'Tis evidently unaware 
That I write lyrics, odes and lays ; 

Or if it knows, it doesn't care. 

No rhymes of mine have ever yet 
Inspired men to sing my praise ; 

I never, I may say, have set 

The Thames or Delaware ablaze. 

Fame seems remote ; the chance of my 

Achieving it is slim indeed. 
Sometimes I really think that I 

Was never born to succeed. 

I'm not quite crushed though ; dreams somehow 
Sustain me. Don't scoff ; life's rough ways 

Are smoothed by dreams ; in them my brow 
Is bedecked by belated bays. 

The world may probably get wise 
To my rare gifts one of these days ; 

'Twill then on me, so I surmise, 
Bestow innumerable bouquets. 



AN OPTIMIST. 

I may be very happy yet. 

Or I may not; this doubt I find 

Affects me not ; I never let 

A doubt disturb my tranquil mind. 

The world that seems inclined to damn 
My verses now, may sometime praise 

Me for the same ; and hence I am 
Not pessimistic these sad days. 

I am an optimist, you see. 

Why, if I knew there were but woe 
Aud suffering in store for me, 

I'd be no pessimist, I know. 



SOME PARAPHRASTICAL LINES. 359 

With apologies to Thomas Moore. 

Alone near the City Hall limps a poor bard, 

In seedy habiliments he is attired ; 
His heart aches, his frame too ; his lot is most hard ; 

From an editor's sanctum he has just been "fired". 

He had the temerity therein to show 

Some verses on spring, whereupon — but not here 
Need the rest be related ; to drown now his woe 

He steps in a saloon and there orders a beer. 

" Oh ! blest be this beer, and in memory oft 

May it sparkle in dreams ! " — Having got off this bit 

Of sentiment, he, for a place that is soft, 

Looks around so that he with some comfort might sit. 

The poet is gone — but he ne'er will forget, 

When at home he shall talk of the dangers he's known. 
To tell, with a sigh, what " endearments " he met 

When he strayed in that Editor's sanctum alone. 



ANTICIPATION. 

Anticipating things is more 

Delightful, so they state, 
Than realizing them ; therefore 

Let me anticipate. 

In dreams I'll find my greatest bliss- 

In dreams that cannot be 
E'er realized by me in this 

Life or eternity. 



360 TOL-ROL-LOL-LOO. 

Written on my fifty-sixth birthday. 

If I live but a few years more — 

Which I intend to do — 
I shall be sixty : just three score 

Of years ! Tol-rol-lol-loo ! 

When I was in the twenties I 
Thought not I would live to 

Be fifty-six years, which is my 
Age now. Tol-rol-lol-loo ! 

Life is, as cases like this teach, 
Uncertain ; yes, look you, 

I may the age of ninety reach. 
Who knows? Tol-rol-lol-loo! 

The longer one lives the more he 
In knowledge grows. How true ! 

Doubtless when ninety I will be 
Most wise. Tol-rol-lol-loo ! 

Still I'm not foolish now. O ! no. 

Nor cynical ; he who 
Reads 'tween my lines will not think so. 

Not much. Tol-rol-lol-loo ! 



POLITENESS PAYS. 

" Your money or your life " said he; 

I really liked not this request. 
But, as he had the " drop " on me, 

I — well, I did not quite protest. 

My pocketbook and watch and chain 
I handed him that darksome night. 

" Thanks, sir," he said, " you may retain 
Your life ". Now wasn't he polite? 



PREACHING AND PRACTICING. 361 

Too many rhymes I have in my 

Book introduced. Who'll read them o'er? 

I've cut out much, but no doubt I 
Should have eliminated more. 

This is a busy age, and few 

Have time to read much poetry: 
'Tis quality which appeals to 

Judicious men — not quantity. 

One's offsprings — I mean of the brain — 

[Malthus need not be quoted here] 
Should be curtailed ; bards should restrain 

Themselves. One ode's enough a year. 

Why not, some may ask, practice what 
You preach. An Elegy like Gray's 

Should be produced, and not a lot 
Of unimportant roundelays. 

Well, I would slaughter all of those 
Poor weaklings — my brain's progeny — 

If afterwards I could compose 
One — one immortal elegy. 

But, hang it all ! withhold your blame. 

I do my best; can one do more? 
If I e'er had a dream of fame, 

That dream — ah well ! that dream is o'er. 

There is now, yes, now in my heart 

And brain a song the world would class 

As worthy; but I've not the art 
Of uttering that song, alas! 



362 PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHY. 

I marvel greatly to hear of 

A man committing suicide 
Because a woman he may love 

Refuses to become his bride. 

Were I in love and she whom I 
Adored disdained to be my wife, 

I probably might heave a sigh, 
But I would hardly take my life. 

I would no cup of poison drain, 
Nor would I cut my throat, nor yet 

Blow out my brains. The girl's disdain 
I would endeavor to forget. 

Time, the great healer, would perchance 
In due course my mind's grief assuage, 

And in another love's romance 
I might have spirit to engage. 

L'Envoi. 
" He jests at scars, that never felt a wound." — Shakespeare. 

But I've ne'er loved ! I speak, no doubt, 
Too lightly of love's pangs. I'm one 

Who, if rejected, might blow out 
His brains — or try to — with a gun. 



PLAINLY PERCEPTIBLE. 

'Tis patent, obvious and clear 

That Homer, Milton, and Shakespeare, 

And Keats, 
Were all great geniuses. Who 
But of their ilk could with words do 

Such feats ? 

Yet none of those famed bards could write 
Like this ; some credit, then, I quite 

Deserve. 
In a strict rhythmic sense, I'm not 
A genius ; I've simply got 

A nerve. 



POLAR POLEMICS. 363 

It certainly begins to look 
As though friend Peary and friend Cook 
Are not quite able to control 
Themselves when ispeaking of the Pole. 

Friend Peary broadly intimates 
That Doctor Cook prevaricates. 
It really isn't very nice 
Thus to throw mud, or rather ice. 

Now when the doughty Commodore 
Went forth the north-wilds to explore, 
When he his home delights forsook, 
He reckoned not with Doctor Cook. 

And Cook forestalled him, so it seems ; 
Poor Peary's fond, ambitious dreams 
Of being the first man to look 
Upon the Pole were smashed by Cook ! 

Well, 'tis the irony of fate. 

Now Peary, in a jealous state. 

Rails at his luck and, with a hook, 

Would drag from fame's niche the bold Cook. 

I hate, I do, upon my soul. 

To see this hero of the Pole 

Act thus. There's room in Glory's Book 

Both for friend Peary and friend Cook. 



364 PEARY'S PRE-EMINENCE. 

Peary indeed was justified 

In saying Cook the faker lied. 

At first I thought the term too strong ; 

I chided Peary; I was wrong. 

The brave Commander could not brook 
The antics of mendacious Cook, 
And in his righteous wrath he tore 
Away the mask the miunmer wore. 

And now this Cook, or rather Crook, 
This lying wretch, who undertook 
To spread on earth a wild canard, 
Is hoisted by his own petard. 

We turn with loathing from a scar 

To gaze upon a lustrous star. 

The world, O ! Peary, would extol 

Thee — God's sole man who found the Pole. 

Commander, the world's people now 
Would wreathe with laurel thy brave brow. 
Accept our homage, daring one. 
Thy life's work, Robert, is well done. 



PERSONIFIED PERFECTION. 

She can sharpen a pencil of lead. 
She can hammer a nail on the head ; 
She's a girl of rare sense. 
She can swim, golf and fence. 
She can sew, cook, bake pies and make bread. 

She can motor, dance, sing, paint and draw: 
She's a pearl in which there is no flaw. 

And this paragon 

(Ah! are you not on?) 
Is, alas ! an ideal — nothing more. 



PREFATORIAL PLEASANTRY.* 

These trivial 
Dedicatory disquisitions 

In introducing 
Sundry Sunset Sonnets 

Are 

Fraternally forwarded 

To the town's truly 

Formidable Four 

(Mrs. B, Miss P, Dr. B and Mr. P.) 



365 



Here in the town 
I've jotted down 
Some lines that may 
A glance repay. 
These, let me state, 
I dedicate 
To the Big Four 
Now at the shore. 
Inhaling there 
The salt sea air 
With its ozone 
That gives a tone 
Of vigor to 
Those town folks who, 
Not feeling well, 
Go there to dwell 
Awhile beside 
The ocean wide. 
I love to raise 
My voice in praise 
Of the deep blue ; 
To listen to 
Its song to me 
Is ecstasy ; 



It seems to stir 
My soul, as 'twere. 
A message of 
A deathless love 
To me it brings. 
And my heart sings. 
Yes, a wave's noise 
Is of all joys 
The — do I hear 
A call for beer? 
Yes, yes, I do ; 
'Tis true, 'tis true. 
They beckon me 
Now from the sea ; 
They say " come here 
And have a beer ! " 
Yes, the Big Four 
Wave now and roar 
An invite to 
Schmidt's famous brew. 
Most surely I'll 
Be glad to " smile " 
With the Big Four, 
Whose wave and roar 



* These lines are introductory to the double acrostic entitled A Sunset on Corson's Inlet, on 
page 211. 



366 



PREFATORIAL PLEASANTRY. 



I see and hear. 
Me for the beer. 
Farewell, O Sea, 
Remember me. 
Thee I adore. 
But O, you Four ! 
When they say " beer " 
Then life seems dear.* 
I must declare 
That I'm glad their 
Names are not long. 
For I'd have strong 
Reasons to shirk 
Acrostic work 
If their names were 
Long. I prefer 
Short names, therefore. 
When I work o'er 
Acrostics ; yes, 



I must confess 

That for this sort 

Of work the short 

Names are the kind 

I like to find. 

But I digress ; 

Beer was, ah yes ! 

Just now my theme ; 

From it I seem, 

Alas ! to range. 

How strange ! how strange ! 

Now let me veer 

Around to Beer. 

If it were not 

For beer one's lot 

In life would be 

A tragedy. 

I find no fault 

With Herr Schmidt's malt 



* A matter-of-fact reader of sumptuary sentiments and with prohibitive propensities should not 
allow himself (or herself) to become unduly horrified over the references to drink in this poem — 
the writer in this particular effusion is not to be taken too seriously. A versifier's rhapsodies 
should not be literally construed. A rhymer cannot be judged rightly by his compositions. 
This rhymer speaks very assertively here of various drinks; elsewhere, in different places, he 
expatiates just as dogmatically on love ; the fact is, however, that he knows practically nothing 
about either drinking or loving, having in his time paid little if any attention to such things. 
He is as ignorant of one as he is of the other; neuher seems to have ever greatly appealed to 
him; perhaps he has no capacity for either; he is, as may truly be said, a most abstemious 
bachelor. His prosaic avocation in life (that of a clerk and bookkeeper) never permitted him to 
acquire a true conception of those dangerous things — drinking and loving, nor yet of other things 
about which he nevertheless has not hesitated to rhyme. Hence when this rhymer after busi- 
ness hours discourses on wine, woman and song, on love, on theology, on sociology, on politics, 
on pugilism, etc., his opinions should not be accepted as authoritative. They are not the opin- 
ions of a man of the world — opinions based on experience, but are merely the imperfect deduc- 
tions drawn from imaginative premises by a very circumscribed rhymer whose prime object is 
the slick turning of a tuneful rhyme rather than the promulgation of a living truth. Still truth, 
if looked for, may be found anywhere. Life flows into every nook and corner of the teeming 
world of to-day, and something of an ever-present mystery can everywhere be learned. Even in a 
busy office a plodding bookkeeper may be enabled to gather a fair knowledge of human nature. 
And so the abstemious bachelor believes that this seemingly vacuous poem of his, if rightly read, 
will, broadly speaking, prove conductive to general abstemiousness, though not perhaps to 
universal bachelorhood. Yes, the writer is pleased to think that here and there upon the pages 
of his book an attentive and patient reader may discern the glimmering ol a truth — a truth gotten 
ofT intentionally by the writer in one of his occasional serious moods. 



PREFATORIAL PLEASANTRY. 



367 



Extract ; a stein 
Of that divine 
Concoction goes, 
As one well knows, 
Right to the spot. 

! does it not? 

1 don't refrain, 

Sir, from champagne — 

Not from " Mumm's dry ", 

O no ! not I. 

Fresh from the ice 

It's very nice. 

Yes, I well love 

The product of 

Those grapes so rich 

And luscious which 

Perfume the air 

Of France ; 'tis there. 

Where the vine grows — 

Yes, there in those 

Romantic dales 

That Love prevails ; 

Yes, it is there 

On French soil, where 

The grapes abound. 

That love is found. 

Love in la belle 

France loves to dwell. 

Love means more there 

Than anywhere 

Else on this small 

Terrestrial ball. 

That tale oft told— 

So old, so old. 

Yet ever new — 

Seems there more true. 

In sunny France 

A girl's glad glance 

And smiles are far 

More glad than are 



Such things elsewhere. 
I have been there. 
Yes, yes, in thought 
Such things I've sought ; 
I've found them too. 
As dreamers do. 
Ah ! here in town, 
As I drink down 
That sparkling wine, 
What joys are mine! 

! life is sweet 
When fond souls meet 
And love — yes, e'en 
In dreams, I ween. 
So when I've quaffed 
Love's true-born draught 

1 feel — I might 
Say — a delight 
I cannot well 

In these lines tell. 

The tongue and pen 

Both fail us when 

We would express 

That happiness 

We sometimes know 

While here below. 

When my joy's deep 

I always keep 

The stillest ; yea, 

The eyes convey 

Our thoughts best when 

We talk with men. 

A silent toast 

Affects me most. 

The eyes, look you. 

May waft as true 

And eloquent 

A sentiment 

As any one 

By words has done. 



368 



PREFATORIAL PLEASANTRY. 



The soul's truth lies, 
Sir, in the eyes. 

! is this, " Rude ", 
A platitude? 

The other three 

Agree with me. 

" Jack," " Clara," " Rose,"- 

Each of them knows 

The eloquence 

Of silence ; hence 

On this fact why 

Enlarge? O! I 

Am now too — well. 

Too full to tell 

My thoughts I fear. 

(Too full of beer.) 

But not I feel 

Too full to deal 

The cards aright. 

1 would tonight 
Play, if I dare, 
Some solitaire. 

Out of the "pack". 
Which holds a " Jack " 
And also two 
Right Bauers, do 
I pluck— a " Rose ". 
There surely grows 
No fairer bloom 
This side the tomb. 
When roses in 
June days begin 
To blossom, then — 
No, I again 
Diverge, I fear. 
Too far from beer. 
I must not bore 
The patient Four. 
I must not stray 
Again away 



From my theme ; let 
Me, therefore, get 
Back to the road 
From which I strode. 
Beer was, methinks. 
And kindred drinks. 
My theme. Excuse 
My vagrant muse. 
And now all hail 
To good old ale. 
This, many think, 
Is a grand drink. 
I'm fond of ale ; 
I like it pale. 
Next — O what bliss! — 
Is whiskey ; this 
Seductive booze 
Who can refuse? 
It is today 

The world's mainstay. 
My compass, though, 
[This many know] 
By which I steer 
Life's barque is beer. 
My chart, my guide, 
My staff, my pride, 
In this life here 
Is beer, beer, beer. 
Beer is my creed. 
Beer — with a bead. 
When much athirst 
I swallow first 
Some good old rye. 
Then — yes, then I 
Proceed to cheer 
Myself with beer. 
Rum, absinthe, gin 
And brandy in 
Right quantities — 
I like all these. 



PREFATORIAL PLEASANTRY. 



369 



Wine? Yes, for all 
Kinds I oft call. 
They all are fine, 
But Beer for mine. 
Beer every time. 
Beer is sublime. 
Porter and stout 
Are, without doubt, 
Drinks worthy of 
Our deepest love. 
This the Quartette 
On the Inlet 
Of Corson's will 
Admit ; but still 
There is no drink 
Like beer, I think. 
We mortals here 
Require beer. 
Beer's what we need. 
Beer — with a bead. 
Our souls demand 
Schmidt's A I brand: 
How heavenly 
A brewery 
Would seem beside 
This — hie — this wide 
Pulsating sea. 

! — hie — let's flee 
To the — hie — bar, 
It can't be far. 
Let us repair 

To the — hie — fair. 
Tra, la, la — wow ! 
I'm happy now. 

1 feel — hie — feel 
Just like the real 
Thing, don't you know, 
Only more so. 

I, yes, I — gee ! 



But what ails me? 

Retire ? Pooh ! 

No. Damfido. 

I'll paint instead 

The Inlet red. 

I'll serenade 

Some nice young maid. 

For you, my dear. 

At this bar here, 

A bar I will 

Of music trill. 

Is not the pun 

A glorious one? 

O, maiden pure. 

Your eyes allure 

My soul away 

From its — hie — clay. 

Love, let us fly ; 

The dawn is nigh — 

She disappears. 

Come, come, more beers ! 

Fair saint, I'll woo 

Thee back, look you, 

With Schmidt's — hie — say, 

What ails me, pray? 

I seem to grow 

So — hie — yes, so 

Er — so — hie — well 

Say, what the hell 

Makes my brain reel? 

What makes me feel 

So — hie — so queer? 

Can it be beer? 

Perish the thought ! 

I spose I ought. 

Yes, I — hie — spose 

I ought to close. 

So long. Big Four. 

Au — hie — revoir. 



370 PHILADELPHIA'S POETICAL POLICE. 

[A contest for the poet-laureateship of the police force was 
held, under the auspices of a Philadelphia newspaper, in the 
spring of 1910. Following are some unofficial dissertations by an 
onlooker at the tourney.] 

Lo ! Spring is here. We citizens 

Bask in those smiles of hers. 
Whilst reading odes fresh from the pens 

Of police officers. 

Yes, we know more of spring, no doubt, 

Than e'er we knew before. 
Now that its charms are pointed out 

By guardians of law. 

Music that breathes of love divine 

Now softly to us floats ; 
Love, too, illumines every line 

That comes from our bluecoats. 

Springtime and Love ! What wondrous themes ! 

Ah ! every listening soul 
Is carried heavenward, it seems, 

In a — er — yes, " patrol ". 

It has been my most fervent prayer 

To reach that place so blest 
Where I might gain a rest, and where 

I might escape — arrest. 

In Thomson's " Seasons " we delight. 

Of vernal joys and peace 
Thomson wrote well, but yet not quite 

As well as our police. 

Though I am, when it comes to rhyme, 

Particularly dumb, 
I know when verses are sublime. 

And I know when they're bum. 



Philadelphia's poetical police. 371 

Oft have I hung enraptured o'er 

A poet's masterpiece ; 
Though I ne'er wooed the Muse like Moore, 

Or Keats, or — the police. 

We cannot all be fav'rites of 

The Muse, but we can sing, 
As best we may, of Truth and Love, 

And Faith, and Hope, in spring. 

We all know something of these things — 

The cop upon his beat, 
The clerk, the workman ; each one sings. 

For each has found life sweet. 

Some men find nought in rhyme, and they 

Disdain the rhymer, who 
Is but a spineless crank, they say. 

Is this impeachment true? 

No, they who soar in airy flights. 

Without an aeroplane. 
Lack not in pluck. We laud the " Wrights " ; 

The poets why disdain? 

They who preserve the law, who face 

Mad mobs, who stamp out crime, 
Who risk their lives, — 'tis no disgrace 

For them to dip in rhyme. 

So let them then. Director Clay, 

Have carte-blanche, as it were. 
To seek the comely Muse and pay 

Their best devoirs to her. 

You might as well attempt to dam 

Niagara as to stop 
My rhythmic flights, although I am, 

As my lines show, no cop. 

Men have, indeed, attempted to 

Damn me, yes, with faint praise. 
Nor dams nor damns, though, can subdue 

Me in mid-vernal days. 



372 Philadelphia's poetical police. 

I wear no star; I'm but a rank 

Civilian, a mere dub. 
I can not wield the pen like " Frank ", 

Nor, like him, wield the club. 

I can't play (I'm not on the force) 

The game well, but I can 
Look on and pass remarks of course. 

Like any other fan. 

With shouts and yells then of delight 
I greet the doughty bards. 

It is an intellectual fight — 
This Battle of the Guards. 

At rhyming " Edward " is no mut ; 

He understands the game ; 
He's not quite up to Kipling, but 

He gets there just the same. 

The victor of the pennant we 

May soon know. Will some dark 

Pegasus win, or will it be 
The War-horse of the Park? 

Imperishable fame awaits 
The cop who wins the bays, 

Whether that cop perambulates 
Town-districts or park-ways. 

Whoe'er the laureled one may be 

I, as becomes a fan, 
Shall rise and root vociferously 

For this prize-winning man. 

But how award the prize — yes, how ? 

It might, perhaps, be well 
To place on each Miltonian brow 

A deathless immortelle. 



PUGILISTIC PICTURES.* 373 

[Apropos of some opinions advanced by certain local moralists 
as to the advisability of allowing managers of moving-picture 
shows to exhibit films which depict the defeat of a popular white 
prizefighter by a colored opponent.] 

The fight films should not be allowed ; 

We must let no kinetoscope 
Show how a negro whipped the proud 

Caucasians' pet and only hope. 

We will assume a pious air ; 

Those who mistrust us we'll abuse ; 
We'll beseech Heaven, and the Mayor, 

To stop these very wicked views. 

Much is at stake — our pride, our race. 

Those pictures taken at Reno 
Must be suppressed ; they're a disgrace, 

O ! why did Jeifries fail us so ! 

Fight films shown ere our idol's fall 
Ne'er wounded so our righteous pride. 

On Heaven — and the Mayor — we call : — 
Save us from being mortified. 

******* 
Drop this false air of sanctity. 

Why fuss and fume so? You've no right 
To stop those who may wish to see 

This reproduction of the fight. 

The " prestige " lost perhaps may be 
Regained in years to come, hence those 

Unlovely traits — hypocrisy. 

Cant, hate and envy — why disclose ? 

The grand Caucasian race need not 

Whine and despond so; it is by 
No means played out ; it's simply got 
Just now a palpable black eye. 
July, 1 910. 

* The heated discussions and general lawlessness throughout the country following 
upon the prizefight at Reno, Nev., on July 4th, 1910, prompted this and the four 
other poems succeeding Precipitous Praise on next page. 



374 PRECIPITOUS PRAISE. 

We should not enthuse, as we do, 
O'er living celebrities who 

Pose within the limelight. 

They're all apt — black and white — • 
To backslide ere with life they are through. 

Dead men cannot do any wrong. 

Let's wait then — our wait won't be long — 

For our heroes to die ; 

When they're safe in the sky 
We can praise them in story and song. 

November, 19 12. 



DOPE. 



" Apology is only egotism wrong side out." 

— Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

Dope, now say some apologists. 

Knocked out the white man's only hope ; 

It was not Johnson's mighty fists, 
But it was dope — yes, it was dope. 

Upon the third day of July 

Johnson could not with our man cope ; 
Jack floored Jim twice and blacked Jim's eye 

Because Jim on the Fourth took — dope. 

Was it Jack's confidence and vim, 

His pluck, strength, skill and science? Nope. 
He whipped our idol because Jim, 

On Independence Day, took dope. 

Our Jim was nervous we admit, 

Not frightened — no, but he would mope, 

And so to soothe him just a bit 

We gave him — perhaps — too much dope. 

Well, well, the white race need not be 

Cast down nor in gloom's dark slough grope ; 

We'll trot out Jim again when he 

Has gotten o'er this case of "dope(?)". 

July, 1910. 



BARBARIANS. 375 

The account of an actual incident, and one of many similar 
occurrences that took place in our city and other American cities 
on this particular anniversary (the 134th) of the Nation's birth- 
day. These lines describing the incident (an unprovoked assault 
on a twelve-year-old colored boy by a crowd of white lads whose 
ages ranged from twelve to seventeen years) are respectfully 
dedicated to the kind lady who so opportunely came to the tor- 
mented boy's assistance and who cared for and comforted him in 
his distress. 

On Independence Day, along 

One of our streets, there walked a child ; 

This child was doing nothing wrong, 

Save that at times he paused and smiled. 

The child was colored. Not " Jack's " feat — 
No, something else amused the boy ; 

He smiled ; some hoodlums on the street 
Observed the youngster's look of joy. 

The look enraged those roughs, and so 

To wipe away the deep disgrace 
Brought on them that day in Reno 

By one who championed their race, 

They fell upon and kicked and beat 
The black child who was passing by, 

And who dared on an up-town street 
To smile on the Fourth of July ! 

" On earth, O ! God, Thy kingdom come." 
Thus here in " Christendom " we pray. 

But none can find in heathendom 
Such crimes as shame our land today. 

We talk about " converting " dumb 
And sinful foreign heathens. Why 

Not convert our town's vile scum? 
Say, is the task too hard to try? 
July, 1910. 



376 ABOUT A BOUT.* 

With some side reflections on the intolerancy evinced by certain 
chauffeurs in their adoption of racetrack discrimination rules. 

Your vict'ry, Jack, has not been vain ; 

You've shown the world, sir, by your feat 
That in pure muscle, as in brain, 

The black race need take no hind-seat. 

Think ! there are creatures sunken so 
In the world's slime as to grudge Jack 

The laurels he won at Reno. 

And why? Because God made him black! 

Perhaps God should have made us of 
One color — white, all white. I'm quite 

Sure, though, that to obtain His love 
We're not required to be white. 

Some other things are requisite — 

Character, honor, purity. 
But some men haven't got the wit 

To understand how this may be. 

Black ! The dark color of Jack's skin 

Is an excuse ; they who decline 
To race with him fear he will win. 

And so they draw the " color line ". 

In a fair fight or auto race 

Few white men dare meet boxer Jack. 

Some low poltroons say 'twould disgrace 
Their " calling " to cope with a black. 

How utterly absurd and how 

Contemptible are all those who 
In the brave world of true sport now 

Object to a man's racial hue. 

* Arthur has apparently fallen from grace; charges afiecting his character are 
made as this book goes to press. These charges, though they may not be substan- 
tiated, are regarded by the general public as well founded. The writer composed 
this series of five poems in July, 1910, being then entirely unsuspicious, of course, of 
Johnson's moral waywardness; the recent charges brought against the noted pugilist 
suggested the short limerick poem, entitled Precipitous Praise, on page 374. 



THE COLORED RACE. 377 

Had surly Jeffries won the scrap 

The nation's white-skin hoodlums then 

Would keep their grimy hands, mayhap, 
From off the colored citizen. 

Our country is disgraced no doubt, 

More by the vile, insane and low 
Race spite now shown than by the bout 

As lately pulled off in Reno. 

As for the pictures — well, 'twill be 

No sin to view them ; yet if they 
Cause fools to act disorderly. 

The Mayor will stop the film display. 

I take (as probably one ought) 

In worldly happenings a bit 
Of interest, though I am no sport. 

Nor — I may say — a hypocrite. 

July, 19 lo. 



THE COLORED RACE. 

As pugilists few white men are 

In Johnson's class ; and how few whites 

Can mount, like the late Paul Dunbar, 
Fair Poesy's sun-flooded heights. 

And Washington, yes, Booker T. — 
The student, thinker, sage — has done 

A work that shows his race to be 
In brain and brawn a worthy one. 

Yet there are men with souls so small 

As to begrudge the boxer Jack, 
The scholar Booker and dead Paul 

Their laurels. Why ? These three are black ! 



378 THE COLORED RACE. 

Black? Yes, at least two of them are; 

The other — well, if saints be fair, 
Then in yon heaven Paul Dunbar 

Is now as white as any there. 

Black ! 'Tis not their fault. Why defame 
Therefore the boxer, sage or bard? 

To be consistent we should blame 

The One who made them, that is — God. 

Yet worth, not color, counts the most 

With Him who made us ; why then slight 

Our darker brother, and why boast 

And brag and gloat because we're white? 

That race, from many human rights 
And privileges now debarred. 

May on life's course outstrip the whites, 
And gain the favor of their God. 

Some scientists think this may be. 

Though theologians protest. 
Well, doctors of divinity 

Are wise ; they probably know best. 

Theology's not in my line. 

Nor can I be placed on the list 

Of scientists ; I'm no divine, 
No bard, no anthropologist. 

I am no savant, sage, nor wit, 

No sad recluse, no saint, no sport; 

But in most things I take a bit 
Of interest, as perhaps one ought. 

I dip, just dip in things ; I am 

A dilettante, one of those 
Whose worldly — no, none cares a damn 

What my life's work is, so I'll close. 

July, 1910. 



ON THE BLEACHERS. 379 

I always whoop her up a bit 

When our home teams score, 
Hence, when the Phillies make a hit, 

I shout and yell and roar. 

I've not whooped much of late, but there 

May, in the way of ball, 
Be something doing later, ere 

The leaves begin to fall. 



A PHYSICIAN OF THE MODERN SCHOOL. 

An Up-to-date Practitioner. 
Respectfully dedicated to Doctor . 

" The world's a stage," so says Shakespeare. 

'Tis true, we mortals are 
Mere mummers ; though in life's play here 

I figure as a star : 

A star, the world knows this full well, 
Whose light can ne'er decline ; 

But, being modest, I shan't dwell 
Upon those deeds of mine. 

I'll just state that my specialty 

Is — no, I should not brag ; 
It ill becomes a famed M. D. 

To chew, as 'twere, the rag. 



380 SYRACUSE SEMINARIANS 

Yet proper self-respect constrains 

Me to aver right here 
That I for all men's aches and pains 

Have a sure panacea. 

I don't, when tending to the ill, 
Prescribe, as most docs do, 

A noxious drug or nauseous pill ; 
Nay, these things I taboo. 

I merely etherize the guy 
Who happens to be sick ; 

I take my scalpel next and try 
On him my " little trick." 

To put it more succinctly, for 

I must not be prolix, 
I simply from my patient draw 

Forth his bum ap-pen-dix. 

Later the patient, or else his 

Executor, draws me 
A check. Ah ! nothing in life is 

As precious as a fee ! 



SYRACUSE SEMINARIANS 

At a Football Game. 

Several stunningly sweet sirens saw 
Some strikingly spry students score. 

Screams succeeded such skill. 

Surely such sounds, so shrill. 
Shook sunny Spain's sea-skirted shore. 



BLONDES AND BRUNETTES. 381 

I scorn them both — blonde and brunette. 

What matters shade or hue 
Of hair or eye ? There ne'er breathed yet 

A woman who was true. 

Women, aye, take it, sir, from me, 

Are false as well as weak ; 
I've studied them most thoroughly ; 

I know whereof I speak. 

For her no wise man entertains 

A passing thought ; none but 
A fool for her blows out his brains. 

Or his throat tries to cut. 

The fact is, though, that men, all men, 

Are fools ; not one is wise. 
We're apt to be most foolish when 

We gaze in women's eyes. 

There is, I own it, a blonde girl, 

A real blonde, if you please. 
Who 'round her little thumb can twirl 

Me with consummate ease. 

Soon I shall ask this blonde to be 

My dear and precious wife ; 
If she declines, I'll probably 

Rush home and take my life. 



A JOY WE ALL MIGHT KNOW. 

Have something to look forward to; 

'Tis pleasant to anticipate 
Good deeds ; hence, when I've got to do 

A thing, I — well, procrastinate. 

I've put off doing lots of things ; 

I like to think about them so. 
I find anticipation brings 

A joy — a joy we all might know. 



382 YOUTH'S ASPIRATIONS. 

When I was a small lad 

I wanted very bad 
To be, when I grew up, a circus-clown, 

Or a detective, or 

A pirate who loved gore. 
Or else a scout or actor of renown. 

I am, though now of age. 

No actor on the stage, 
Nor clown, nor scout, nor sleuth who hunts down crooks. 

Nor pirate on the seas ; 

No, I am none of these ; 
I'm in an office, down town, keeping books ! 



A TRIBUTE TO LORD ALFRED TENNYSON. 

Written on the fly-leaf of a copy of " In Memoriam " presented 

to Miss L. C. 

Britannia's famed Laure-ate 
Rhymed well : he was certainly great 

When he touched upon love : 

But he knew nothing of 
Limericks, it is saddening to state. 

A good poet, though, was A. T. 
He was greater perhaps than C. P. 

But it's doubtful if this 

Noble lord had the bliss 
Of e'er knowing a girl like L. C. 

Let those who o'er Alfred enthuse 
Not proceed in their zeal to abuse 

Poor C. P. Why resent 

A fond sentiment 
Of one who would here woo the Muse? 

Ah ! C. P. believes it is no 
Sacrilege upon this page to show 

His deep-rooted regard 

For the Laureate Bard, 
And for the fair L. C. also. 



NEWS. 383 

Written thirty years after A Tribute to Alfred Tennyson. 

And so you met L. C. today. 

What! now Mrs. Brown? You don't say! 

'Twas real nice of her 

To ask if I were 
"Still living." How time glides away! 

The years to one closely employed 
Pass quickly; life's May I enjoyed; 

But such joys don't last, 

December's shrill blast 
Now sounds. Youth's hopes soon are destroyed. 

And L. C. — I mean Mrs. Brown, 
When told I still lived here in town. 

Just smiled — smiled and said 

She thought I was dead; 
This thought seemed not to cast her down. 

I live — or, to speak properly, — 
Exist. O ! it's pleasant to be 

Remembered by one 

For whom I have none 
But kind thoughts— I allude to " L. C." 

To L. C. whose friendship I knew — 
A friendship enduring all through 

A whole happy spring. 

'Tis most comforting 
To think of a friendship so true ! 

Yes, C. P. still lives — still exists; 

Still draws breath, still keeps books, still persists 

In rhyming a bit 

When olden scenes flit 
Before him from out of life's mists. 



384 OUR DOROTHY. 

(After the manner of Read, to whom probably, considering the 
circumstances, no apologies need be made.) 

The time draws near 

When on the pier 
We'll wave, yet not without a tear, 

A farewell to 

Our Doro, who 
Is soon to sail the ocean blue. 

She goes to France 

To eat, perchance, 
Frog-legs, and probably to dance 

And sing also; 

For we all know 
That she is, so to speak, " not slow ". 

Our Dorothy 

Will surely be 
A lioness in gay Paree. 

She will by her 

Rare graces stir 
The heart of Europe, I infer. 

In France — la belle 

France — this town's well- 
Known star will for a season dwell. 

They'll sing her praise 

There these spring-days. 
And toast her in the swell cafes. 

When Dorothy 

Has crossed the sea. 
There'll be but little joy for me 

In " the States" here; 

I'll find, I fear. 
Life, without Doro, very drear. 



she's back! 385 

Still I'll not quite 
Despair : there's light 
Amid the gloom. Hope's star, so bright, 
Still shines; and we 
Again may see 
Our (ah yes! "our") Dorothy. 
May 10, 1913. 



SHE'S BACK! 

She's back again! 

Ah ! if my pen 
Were but more facile I might then 

With truer art 

And skill impart 
The news which now enthrills my heart. 

I cannot state 

In adequate 
Verse-phraseology so great 

A fact that she — 

Our Dorothy — 
Is back, though it means much to me. 

Let others woo 

The Muse, and to 
A listening world reveal their true, 

Deep thoughts, whilst I 

Stand dumbly by, 
Not daring to breathe e'en a sigh. 

But O ! sometime 

In a far clime 
My soul may, in immortal rhyme. 

Exult and be 

Forever free 
To sing, to sing — for Dorothy ! 



386 YOUTH. 

Dear are the songs of youth ! Ah, I 
One time was young ! I sang in those 

Rare, sunny days, so long gone by. 

Of love — the love which glad youth knows : 

The love that I no more shall know. 
How free those days were of all cares ! 

Yet time can ne'er, with all its woe, 
Bedim the glory that was theirs. 

A gracious, tender memory 

Uplifts my soul these later days. 

Earth still is beautiful ; let me 
Rejoice, then, as I tread its ways. 



LIFE'S EVENING. 

Love's not for me ! Why should I, then, 
In my life now love's strange cares bring? 

Let me be free — heart-free as when 

I trod life's ways in youth's bright spring. 

Each one who plods earth's thoroughfares 
Knows of life's dangers ; I've thus far 

Escaped its pitfalls and its snares. 
No heart, though, is without a scar. 

Doubtless love's not for me, and yet 

A vision of a maiden, whom 
Long years ago I one time met, 

Lights up for me life's twilight-gloom. 



A GRANDSON'S TRIBUTE TO HIS 387 
GRANDMOTHER. ' 

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY W. A. C. 

When things go wrong and I feel blue, 
Who is it writes a billet-doux, 
Which really cheers me through and through? 
My Grandma. 

Who is it thinks I'm truly great — 
Who seems, in fact, to estimate 
Me at my worth? I'm glad to state 
'Tis Grandma. 

I have a lock of golden hair 
That I habitually wear 
Next to my heart: who placed it there? 
My Grandma. 

Oft do I gaze upon that hair ; 
The gift of one so sweet and fair, 
And also young, although I swear 
She's Grandma. 

And when upon the road I go, 
With a new line of calico, 
That lock of hair uplifts the woe 
Which otherwise would crush me so. 
This is not strange : the hair, you know. 
Is Grandma's. 

Now breathe it not, but I have, too, 
The picture of a maiden who 
Is very kind and very true. 
And loves me as all women do — 
'Tis Grandma's. 



388 A grandson's tribute to his grandmother. 

O precious picture ! really I 
(Believe me, this is not a lie) 
Would rather — yes, much rather die 
Than part with it : the reason why 
Is this — the photo's that of my 
Dear Grandma. 

Now women, I may say, are quite 
Entrancing creatures, and I might 
Enlarge upon this theme to-night. 
Only I do not think it right : 
For there's but one (she's out of sight) 
Whose presence fills me with delight — 
That's Grandma. 

Does dear Grandma reciprocate 
My love? Why cert. At any rate. 
She says so in her notes of late. 
Dear, kind Grandma. 

So to the office at the end 
Of each glad week my way I wend : 
There, handed to me by a friend. 
On whom I very much depend, 
Are those sweet letters that are penned — 
By Grandma! 



THE ACADEMY. 389 

Lines toP*****L*****, Esq., member of the Acad- 
emy of Natural Sciences, on receiving from him a copy of his 
treatise on Pamphila Aaronii. 

Though I live adjacent to 

" The Academy " I do 
But rarely in that building show my " mug ". 

I am not down on the list 

As an Entomologist : 
I scarcely know the name of any bug. 

They have no use for me 

In that academy : 
They don't want chumps who deal in sentiment. 

If I called there they'd throw 

Me quickly out I know, 
For I am not a scientific gent. 

I read, though, with delight 

Your pamphlet, and I'm quite 
Obliged to you for putting me so wise 

To insect breeding : still 

Some bugs I'd rather kill 
Than breed — of course I don't mean butterflies. 



THESE DAYS. 

I live near the Park Boulevard ; 
At any rate, I try real hard 

These days to live there. 

But to live anywhere 
Is not easy these days — for a bard. 



390 SOLUTION OF A CHESS PROBLEM. 



Problem called the " Baby Elephant " appearing originally in 
the chess columns of " The Times ", April i8, 1880. 



BLACK. 























BKt 














WK 












WP 


B P 


WP 
B B 


B P 


B P 


W P 


B P 




B P 


WR 


BK 




B P 


W P 


BB 


WR 






WKt 


BR 


W P 


B P 


W P 




WP 




B P 






W P 










WKt 






W B 





WHITE. 

White to play and mate in five moves.* 



SOLUTION. 

White, having move to make, with his good King should take 
The Knight ; now Black his King's Pawn pushes one ; 

Then quickly White doth bring to Queen's sixth square his King. 
Next, Black's Pawn captures Pawn. Well begun ! 

Of much the " Baby's " shorn, for White takes Pawn with Pawn 
The while Black views his third move with a sigh, 

He needs must shove with care his King Knight's Pawn a square. 
White smilingly sees victory is nigh ; 

He places, with delight, on King's fifth square his Knight. 

Poor Black to make his fourth move sets about ; 
But O ! what can he play ! move Bishop where he may, 

White's Knight will mate him next beyond a doubt. 

• The writer did not compose this problem, he wrote only the versified solution. 
The name of the Problemist he is unable to recall. 



A POEM IN PROSE. 391 

Some Day. 

Inscribed, %vith regards, to Walt Mason. 

It seems modest to enclose real verse in apparent prose : yet in 
headlines to declare that a poem is put there, worthy of a copy- 
right, looks a little, at first sight, like a vain bard's ruse whereby 
he might catch the public eye. Still no harm's done. Why sup- 
press one who strives to win success ? All who would their wares 
purvey, bards as well as others, may label them as seems most 
wise, and their merits advertise. Surely advertising pays in these 
truly business days. Bards who advertise their wares may in 
time be millionaires : they their aims may best attain by denounc- 
ing sordid gain. Or the day that brings the dough they may 
hasten if they show, in some sad, sweet melody, the blest joys of 
poverty. Wealth and glory come to those who put poems within 
prose : but the poems must all be of the finest quality. The 
" Masonic " brand will win favor from " The Bulletin ". I can- 
not, though, on demand, hand out this required brand ; hence the 
coin and fame, that lure modern bards, I must abjure. 'Tis neces- 
sity constrains me herein ; no one disdains coin and glory — not 
e'en those who put poems within prose. Coin it is — the bright 
coin of our realm that men most love. This, we know, some bards 
deny : well, these bards perhaps don't lie ; they may be a truthful 
lot ; then, again, they may be not. Coin and glory ! Ah ! some 
day they, perhaps, may come my way. Yes, I may amass some- 
time untold wealth by means of rhyme. Some day, some day, 
some sweet day things will likely come my way. I endeavor 
oftentimes to express my thoughts in rhymes, but the Muse, whose 
aid I ask, seldom helps me with my task : oft to my most frantic 
call she makes no response at all. Mister Mason does not find 
her so distant, so unkind. I am sure the Muse ne'er slights Mister 
Mason when he writes ; she assists him in his tasks ; in her 
gracious smiles he basks. I wish very frequently that she were 
as kind to me ; not to have men reimburse me for copyrighted 
verse. No. Ah ! perish such a thought. A bard's inspiration 
ought to be higher ; he should aim to secure, not gold, but fame. 
Still I don't think I'd resent a proposed emolument for my verse ; 
but I'm, alas ! not in Mister Mason's class. Bards unfavored by 
the Muse must, perforce, life's prizes lose. It is hard, but ne'er- 



392 A POEM IN PROSE. 

theless I am cheered in my distress by the thought that probably 
Mister Mason pities me. No, I shall not call him " Walt " ; he 
would doubtless call a halt on familiarity such as this from one 
like me. Mason — Mister Mason, I should observe here, that 'tis 
my sad misfortune, not my fault, that " she " snubs me. Ah ! dear 
Walt (I mean Mister Mason), you feel for me, I know you do. 
But I am not kicking; there is no reason to despair. Hope is 
mine. A man who woos the fair but capricious Muse is not 
easily cast down ; he may smile, though Fate may frown. Some 
day, some day, some sweet day things will likely come my way. 
Some day there will burst from me an entrancing melody whose 
sonorous notes will roll from the late discovered Pole to the 
farthest star, whose light has as yet not reached us quite. Then I, 
in immortal prose, may embody one of those grand, dear poems 
that, it seems, I compose in happy dreams. Ah, the world will 
marvel when I wield my inspired pen. Then beneath yon 
heaven's vault I'll hobnob with — yes, with Walt. The fair Muse 
impartially then will smile on Walt and me ; strains of music 
from the spheres will be wafted to our ears, our voices blending 
free in the stellar symphony. O ! we'll make the welkin ring 
with the songs that we shall sing. We will sing as ne'er before ; 
from our souls the songs will pour. Ah ! this whirling world 
will be ravished by our harmony. Men will wreathe our brows 
with bays in the coming songful days. While the populace exalt 
our deeds I'll turn to Walt, and I'll say to him — Old boy, this life 
is a life of joy: yes, a life of joy, dear pard, to the one who is a 
bard. O ! the rapture, O ! the bliss, living in a world like this ! 
Of all worlds in space it is far the happiest. I wis — * * * * 
But forgive me ; it may be. Mister Mason, wrong for me thus to 
dream. Yet who will blame a poor wretch who dreams of fame? 
Sometime 'neath the bright blue skies we our dreams may realize. 
Sitting here among the gloom of a back third-story room in the 
night's deep solitude I write out these verses crude. But the 
gods some day may be, as I've said, more kind to me. Some 
.day, some day, some sweet day things will likely come my way. 



ADAM'S EXCORIATION OF POETS 393 
AND THEIR PRODUCTIONS.* 

To the world at large. 
Fellow-Mo rtals : 

I have no use for poets : their work indicates a nature too cal- 
culating for me to admire. They conceive a thought and with 
painful deliberateness sit down to present it according to set pro- 
sodical rules, not daring to disregard feet, rhyme, rhythm and 
other verse requirements. There is an artificiality about this 
business. 

I prefer the free, unconventional manner with which a truly 
frank man expresses his sentiments. Poets don't seem to know 
when to let well enough alone ; they continually try to improve 
an effusion after it has been sprung on an unsuspecting public. 
Quite a number of prominent poems have been revised more than 
once by their authors : this is tantalizing to those who purchase 
first editions. 

Those engaged in the art of painting, sculpturing and the like 
are not in the habit, after their wares are on the market, of hunt- 
ing them up with brush and chisel for the purpose of making 
alterations. 

The example set by these artists should be followed by those 
who dabble in verse and who call their work an " art ". 

I am, my poor suffering fellow-mortals, 

Very truly yours, Adam. 

July 20, 1905. 



AN ANSWER. 

To whom it may concern. 
Dear Sir {or Madam — as the case may be) : 

I am a poet (ahem!). Naturally I want to reply to the letter 
signed " Adam ". I do not know how that letter will affect Austin, 
Kipling, Swinburne, Markham, Tubbs, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 
James Whitcomb Riley and others of my contemporaries (ahem!), 
but it causes me to boil over with more or less indignation. It 
is true that we poets {we poets} sometimes make changes in our 
poems after they leave the press, but what of that. Homer, 

*This " Adam" epistle, it should be stated, was written by the rhymer himself so 
as to provide a motive for the perpetration of the answering production which di- 
rectly follows. 



394 AN ANSWER. 

Shakespeare, Byron, Keats, Burns, Tennyson, Browning, Poe, 
Longfellow, Whittier and others in their day have occasionally 
revised their lines. I have revised mine ; the practice may prove 
temporarily tantalizing to our living admirers, but posterity will 
be the gainer by inheriting our most polished and finished work. 
(Ahem!) "Adam" charges us (us, mind you) with being in- 
sincere. He actually intimates that we are temperamentally dis- 
honest. O, this is too much! It is enough to drive a poet (and 
let me re-mention the fact that I am to be classed in that cate- 
gory) ; it is enough, I say, to drive a poet to profanity, or worse. 
It has driven me to worse — I mean to verse. Adam would per- 
haps not approve of my changing this word. It has not, though, 
driven me to profanity. Surely there is nothing in the last stanza 
of the following poem addressed to " Adam " that savors of pro- 
fanity. 

I don't hesitate to own 

That " Let well enough alone " 
Is a saying worth considering when tempted, as we are. 

To retouch some work supposed 

To be irrevocably closed. 
For in an attempt to better we are liable to mar. 

A sculptor who would try 

To beautify his statue's eye 
By a supplemental clipping of the brow, may only make 

Matters worse : his extra toil 

Might the whole stone-image spoil. 
Hence for him an extra chiselling were a palpable mistake. 

Take his brother artist, who 

In oils may really do 
A masterpiece that promises to bring fame for which he yearns : 

Yet, not satisfied, he takes 

Up his brush again, and makes 
An improvement which does not improve — as he too late discerns. 

But the poet, O ! the sad 

And dreamy poet ! He may add 
Various verses to his piece and no one seems to care, " Adam ". 

Yet rhyming's easy, and if my 

Verses are not read — well, I 
Shall have no reason to be sadder than I usually am. 



NOT OBLIGATORY. 395 

Addressed to any one who may, whilst turning over the leaves 
of this volume of verses, happen to glance upon this page. 

You who pick up this book of mine 
Are not obliged to read each line 

Therein ; 'twere well 
To read some short poems, also 
The " Dedication " ; don't dip, though, 

Into my "Hell". 

Peruse your Dante ; his style may 
Delight you more than my weak way 

Of treating so 
Delectable a place. If you 
Want something vigorous, read through 

His " In-fer-no ". 

We differ — I and Dante do — 
About the place we're going to 

Sojourn awhile. 
His views are fearsome ; the " Divine 
Commedia " may scare you — mine 

May make you smile. 

I do not aim to terrify. 

If I win but one smile then I 

Am satisfied. 
Yet I would not want to appear 
Too careless. I have (don't smile here) 

A serious side. 



ASTUTENESS. 

A woman reader, who 

Looks the above lines o'er, 

May be moved by them to 

That " Hell " of mine explore. 

Perhaps this was just why 

I wrote those " decoy " rhymes. 

Shrewd? Yes, but bards must try 
To get verse read sometimes. 

Poets who are astute 

Know what " the sex " will do 
When warned 'gainst certain fruit, 

And certain verses too. 



396 A SILENT HARP. 

I'm working now, hence I'm not free 

To sing to any great extent. 
From now on in this world there'll be 

A dearth of rhythmic sentiment. 

My harp upon the wall doth hang. 

Mute are those chords that used to throb 
Beneath my touch. I durst not twang 

The harp now ; I must hold my job. 

Yet the sad world should try to bear 

Its temporary loss of song. 
Jobs are uncertain. Who shall dare 

Say I'll not twang that harp ere long? 

If it should chance that I am " fired " — 
Which is not an unlikely thing — 

I would at once trill an inspired 
Song such as only true bards sing. 

I know full well the world at large 

Waits for this song ; but song ne'er won 

A bard a living ; don't discharge 
Me yet — not yet; I need the mon. 



JUST DESERTS. 

I sometimes think (perhaps I'm wrong) 
That I'd be wealthy if I were 

Paid by the world for every song 
And every poem I write her. 

And yet, and yet (ah! who can tell?) 
Had I for all my songs and rhyme 

My just deserts, I in a cell 

Might now, yes, now be " doing time ". 



NEEDS AND WANTS. 397 

If we had all we needed we'd be quite 

Well off perhaps, and doubtless know few cares. 

Had we, though, all we wanted, then we might 
Have worries, but we'd all be millionaires! 

A moral here may be deduced, 'tis this : 

That wealth — great wealth does not free one from care. 
I would, however, in my quest for bliss 

Not hesitate to be a millionaire. 



POESY'S ESSENTIALS. 

One who has never tried to rhyme may think 
The task is hard ; but no, it's easy when 

There is within one's reach a well of ink, 
A goodly lot of foolscap and a pen. 

Of course one must have thoughts at one's command ; 

Thoughts, though, are very plentiful 'mong men. 
But O ! there is not always right at hand 

Those three essentials — paper, ink and pen. 



THE PEN. 

The pen is man's best friend in times like these : 
More mighty than the sword, we're told ; let then 

The fighting men wield all the swords they please ; 
I'd rather (it is safer) wield a pen. 

But yet not always, I'm constrained to state. 

Is the pen mightier and safer than 
The sword ; 'tis when the writing-man is " great " 

The pen wins out — Ah ! am I such a man ? 



398 INSUFFICIENT SPACE. 

Just a few lines, say only four, 
Allow me in which to explain 

How I met and came to adore 
Miss — no, too short is a quatrian. 



MISS ***** 

'Twould take ten thousand tomes to try 
To thoroughly tell the true tale 

That tends to trace the tender tie 
Uniting me to this female. 

Yes, she — this female — is so nice 
That not less than the number of 

Tomes I have mentioned will suffice 
To tell the story of our love, 

I'll not essay the task ; no, I 

Shall make most copious notes instead ; 
The tale can then be told by my 

Biographers — when I am dead. 



DEFERRED LAURELS. 

Some future antiquarian. 

Delving between the light lines of 
This volume, may feel that the man 

Who wrote the lines knew how to love. 

Perhaps the thought disclosed here may 
Smack of conceit, and some may twit 

Me thereupon. Ah well, if they 
Do so I'll surely not mind it. 

Posterity (jeer all ye please) 

May do me justice. 'Tis, I find, 
A joy to think I'll gain by these 

Rhymes (sometime) a friend who'll prove kind. 



HAT HANGING HARPIES. 399 

Something funny is in order, 

So I'll tell about a boarder — 
Harrie Hady — who disliked to pay board bills, and who, they say, 

Hated working. Mr. Hady 

Married, therefore, his landlady. 
Harrie doesn't work now ; he lives well, with no board bills to pay. 

Will this story cause much laughter? 

No, I rather think that after 
It is read the more judicious will not even care to smile. 

There are in the world, dear ladies. 

Far too many Harrie Hadys — 
Shameless parasites whose slothful souls reek with the foulest guile. 



HILARIOUS HAPPENINGS. 

He slipped on a banana peel 

And fell down hard, while one and all 
About him laughed ; it seems a real 

Good joke to see a person fall. 

And the effects of that fall he — 
The victim — felt for years ; but then 

Most of us laugh quite heartily 
When mishaps come — to other men. 



HAZARDOUS HEIGHTS. 

Though there's room, as I'm told, at the top, 
Yet my efforts to get there I'll stop ; 

I might fall ! While I'm no 

Strict abstainer, why go 
Where I'm likely to take such a drop? 



400 HUMORISTS. 

In order these days to attract 
Attention and to make a hit, 

One must be funny; yes, in fact. 
One must be something of a wit. 

One has to memorize a few 

Old vaudevillian jokes, and drag 

Them into all discussions to 
Sustain his standing as a wag. 

Now this is rather rough on one 

Of serious proclivities. 
'Tis hard on such to hand out fun 

When discussing life's tragedies. 

But humorists must live up to 

Their reputations; they must keep 

The world a-laughing ; though they do 
No doubt oft make high heaven weep. 



THE REALITY OF THE UNREAL. 

My book I'm drawing to a close, 

I have now only one or two 
More things to write ; I don't suppose 

That any one will read them through. 

The poem Gwendolen McKnett 
Is much too long; I hardly can 

Expect that to be read ; nor yet 
Will many read A Model Man. 

Why, then, have labored over them. 
Some matter of fact folks may ask. 

'Twas simply because I — a-hem ! 
Well, just because I liked the task. 



PROLOGUE. 401 

" The labor," says the great bard, " we 
Delight in, physics pain." Ah, yes! 

The pain that seemed to trouble me 
Was just the pain of — loneliness! 

Just loneliness. How funny ! Yes, 

I have felt lonely oftentimes; 
And in my spells of loneliness 

I found some comfort writing rhymes. 

I found that thoughts were company — 

That mythic creatures of my pen 
Were kinder and more true to me 

Than were real women and real men. 

Therefore I revelled, as it were, 

In Fancy's world, so wondrous fair, 

And won the love — the love of her 

Whose presence sheds such glory there. 

What tenderer companionship 

Than hers, pray, can there be for me? 

In lonely hours I must dip 
(Can I do else?) in poesy. 



PROLOGUE. 

And now for Given McKnctt. 

She is a myth, but yet 
The void in my heart would be greater were 

It not for Gwen. To me 

There's a reality 
About that world whose joys I share with her. 

Faith's eye beholds more than 

One's optic organ can. 
The soul discerns more clearly than the mind. 

And so I've learned how rare 

And real that world is where 
Dwell men and women who are true and kind. 



402 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

I now intend to write 

That which will much delight 
Your very youthful heart, my Gwennie dear. 

O ! I a poet am, 

And I don't care a — a bit 
Who knows it, for I'm not the sort to fear. 

Some, who have read thus far, 

May not think these lines are 
As refined as could be penned by a bard who 

Was reared with so much care 

As I ; but don't despair ; 
There will be some genteel things said ere I'm through. 

Really, Gwendolen McKnett, 

I have hardly started yet ; 
I'm but sparring for an opening. Why, I 

Can, in ring parlance, land 

A punch with either hand. 
I'll be dealing out some real dope by and bye. 

If in the index I 

Thunder thus loudly, my 
Motive is worthy. I should not commence 

This task too hurriedly; 

It is serious to me, 
For the poem is didactic — in a sense. 

I wish to feel the ground. 

So to speak, ere I expound 
The striking truths and morals that I would 

In proper rhyme convey. 

Give me, then, some leeway. 
Before long I'll be doing you some good. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 403 

It is not right to hurl 

Upon a gentle girl 
Of your frail build great truths too suddenly. 

Besides, it's been some time 

Since I last dipped in rhyme ; 
So I must now extremely careful be. 

My last piece, as you know, 

Went the rounds some time ago 
Of the general press and of the magazines. 

My neglected art again 

I take up. I find it, Gwen, 
Hard at first to tell my thoughts by rhythmic means. 

It is only at the start 

I am somewhat faint of heart; 
My art saves me from disaster, also my 

Nerve helps me when astride 

Of Pegasus. Few can ride 
That steed with such full confidence as I. 

Should I now be dismayed? 

Nay, the task I have essayed 
Is indeed herculean, yet heretofore 

My nerves have stood the strain 

Involved in this work of the brain. 
And I rather think they can do so once more. 

At the threshold, as it were, 

Of a work that might confer 
So much of happiness on humankind, 

I am not the one to let 

Any doubts and fears upset 
The equipoise of my gigantic mind. 



404 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

While the verses I submit 
May fairly scintillate with wit, 

Yet I shall touch on serious subjects too : 
I propose to inculcate 
Lessons that may prove of great 

Advantage to a worthy girl like you. 

Perhaps I'll disregard, 

Like Camden's good Gray Bard, 

Some verse requirements, but at the height 
Of any passion too 
O'erwhelming to subdue, 

I care not if prosodian feet I slight. 

I'm a guy that knows what's what ; 

Flies, for instance, never got 
On my person, for I've cut my wisdom tooth. 

I'm no chump, and I would smash 

In the face of any rash 
Individual who doubts I speak the truth. 

But I'm by nature meek ; 

When smitten on one cheek 
I turn the other one, I proudly state, 

Around for one more blow : 

But when struck thrice I show 
An inclination to expostulate. 

Yes, as a rule, I'm mild ; 

I'm a sort of nature's child. 
Among her solitudes I love to be : 

'Mid her peaceful scenes I feel 

A happiness so real 
That my inmost soul thrills with an ecstasy. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 405 

Yes, in her solitudes 

I love to stray : her moods 
Are many and capricious ; often she 

Is gentle, kind and mild, 

And loving as a child. 
But O how cruel she at times can be ! 

In her vv^ild moments I, 

Beneath a lurid sky. 
Have stood and v^^atched, with mingled joy and fear. 

The fierce outbreaking of 

A mighty wrath, when Love 
Seemed dead and Hate reigned on our trembling sphere. 

Believe me, I am not 

A misanthropic lot : 
I love humanity — its joys are mine: 

Its sorrows, too, I share, 

And at times, though 'tis rare, 
I towards its dissipations do incline. 

To tell you about these 

Dissipations, Gwen, may please 
And interest you : possibly they might. 

Should I suppress a few, 

(Which I had better do) 
Edify as much as they afford delight. 

Well, once, O ! Gwen McKnett, 

I smoked a cigarette ; 
I'm a devil of a fellow, 'pon my word. 

And one night I went to 

The famous old Bellevue, 
And ordered there a bottle and a bird ! 



406 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

I may say every cent 

Of my week's stipend went 
For that light luncheon : and I had to do 

Thereafter, for a spell, 

My " eating " at a place less swell, 
But I picked my teeth in front of The Bellevue. 

A business man, I hold, 

Should be alert and bold. 
An air of opulence conduces to 

Success : hence frequently. 

After sampling a free 
Lunch, I've picked my teeth in front of The Bellevue. 

Men do dissemble so. 

Viewed in the abstract, though. 
Humanity is grand. 'Tis true, these days 

We are liable to find 

Here and there among our kind 
Specimens we cannot very warmly praise. 

How strange life is ! Yes, Gwen, 

I've often thought so when 
Before Boldt's door my useful " pick " I twirled. 

A student of life may 

In front of a cafe 
Acquire quite a knowledge of the world. 

Not among nature's hills, 

Nor by the sea that thrills 
One with its grandeur and sublimity, 

Do I find life so dear 

As in the city here. 
Where I can study best its mystery. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 407 

The crowded streets appeal 

To me : on them I feel 
At home. 'Tis true God made the country, still 

By His grace and His aid 

The cities have been made. 
Why, then, of them should any one speak ill? 

Great cities are — but you 

Will not this thing read through 
If I thus moralize. Now where was I 

Ere I diverged ? O yes ! 

I started to confess 
Some unforgotten sins of days gone by. 

I, as I said, have smoked. 

I've actually invoked 
The Muse whilst puffing at a vile segar. 

I've drunk too — the weed's chief 

Concomitant, in brief. 
Is whiskey, which I've gulped at many a bar. 

The users of the weed, 

(Smokers, chewers, snuffers), need 
A neutralizing article like gin 

To offset the nicotine 

In the brain, lungs, heart and spleen. 
Ah ! whiskey and tobacco are akin. 

To see such an unclean 

Thing as a pipe between 
The lips of men professing here on earth 

To aid God's cause is — well, 

Enough to make all hell 
Break out in unextinguishable mirth. 



408 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

It really seems to me 

A strange anomaly 
For churchly men to smoke, as many do. 

Still if they're like the rest 

Of us, need we protest? 
No, let them drink and smoke and snuff and chew. 

But it is so absurd, 

For those who preach The Word, 
To rail 'gainst drink when in that twin vice they 

Are steeped. Consistency 

Is, most assuredly, 
The rarest jewel in the world today. 

But I digress again. 

I really must try, Gwen, 
To curb a habit which I much deplore. 

Now to resume my tale ; 

'Tis one that cannot fail 
To edify you, as I've said before. 

I have been to moral shows, 

I have wept at human woes, 
I have dabbled some in literature and art ^ 

I have even tasted of 

Those sweet delights that love 
Awakens in a young man's tender heart. 

Where proudest Beauty reigned 

I have dwelt, but I refrained 
From yielding up that heart which in me beats : 

I have passed unscathed her snares 

Set to catch one unawares. 
Though I plucked most freely of her sweetest sweets. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 409 

Yes, these lips have clung ere this 

In a long impassioned kiss 
To other lips most roguish and most red ; 

And these eyes have gazed into 

Other eyes of deeper blue, 
And this breast hath pillowed many a fair young head. 

And these arms, O yes ! these arms 

Have encircled forms whose charms 
Far surpassed those told in fiction we have read ; 

But this heart was never theirs, 

For in all my love affairs 
I have ne'er permitted it to rule my head. 

I have always had my way 
With the fairer sex. Ah ! they 

Deem me more charming than most of my kind ; 
And probably they're right. 
The dear creatures are so bright, 

And to manly beauty none of them are blind. 

O the hearts with which Fve toyed ! 

O the conquests I've enjoyed! 
O the victims of my charms who pined and died ! 

Yet not undeserved their fate. 

For they planned to subjugate 
One who beat them at the little game they tried. 

But I'll drop this talk on hearts 
With its sweets, its wiles and arts; 

For, although I am an adept at the game. 
There's a young blonde fairy who 
Might my now free soul subdue — 

Though I'll not divulge the said young fairy's name. 



410 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

I am ruthless I confess, 

Yet my heart is really less 
Adamantine than my writings may reveal. 

Ah ! there's one — this fairy sprite — 

Who with little effort might 
Crush that organ 'neath her dainty little heel. 

Well, if she felt thus inclined, 

I would not so greatly mind : 
I'd lay bare my throbbing heart without a groan. 

Though it might be thought unwise 

For a maid to utilize 
A man's fond heart as a mere stepping-stone. 

Would the weight, though, of those feet 

Still the heart that now doth beat? 
The pressure might be fatal, yet who cares? 

'Neath her feet to yield one's breath! 

Ah ! this surely were a death 
That would sweetly realize my fondest prayers. 

Then my epitaph would show 

Those most curious to know 
Of him who underneath the stone doth rest, 

That the sleeper was a youth 

(Epitaphs all tell the truth) 
Who died of an oppression on the chest. 

Now fair Gwen knows well for whom 
I would meet this crushing doom, 

So 'twere supererogatory to explain: 
And I therefore will proceed 
To other things my pet may read 

With no less a sense of pleasure and of gain. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 411 

Shall I let my radiant gem 

Know how greatly I condemn 
An appetite for alcoholic drink? 

Why some real dear friends of mine 

Are accustomed to take wine ! 
But of course from such depravity I shrink. 

Yes, I'm temperate: and so 

I believe that rimi should go — • 
That one ought to put it down whene'er one can : 

And on occasions I, 

Especially when dry, 
Have put it down- — for I'm a temperance man. 

I have played the races, though 

The nags backed by me were slow ; 
At the tracks I never have met with success. 

I'm a very easy mark 

For the touter and the shark. 
My faith in them I really must suppress. 

I've played poker, let me say, 

In a very cautious way. 
Mayhap I've sworn and used some slang at times. 

I've been out nights with the boys, 

And have known certain joys 
Which 'twere better not to speak of in these rhymes. 

Jovial spirits like a lark: 

Often I (but keep this dark, 
For I breathe it in a confidential way) 

Paint the town a crimson hue, 

Yet 'tis singular how blue 
One feels on his release the following day. 



412 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

But my loveliest of pets 
Knows how soon a cocktail sets 

One aright. O ! as a bracer it's immense. 
And it's often I have quaflfed 
Of this necessary draught, 

Which indicates that I'm a man of sense. 

When I obtain a pass 

To an opera that's first-class, 

I invariably do patronize the show ; 
And when the ballet's called 
I, although by no means bald, 

Am always to be found on the front row. 

'Round stage-doors I have hung 

Many times to watch the young 
And modest members of the ballet corps 

Emerge. I — no. Who cares 

To hear about affairs 
With ntw-found friends after the play is o'er? 

After the play ! Ah ! then 
Life's gayest hours, Gwen, 

Begin. I join the strollers, beaus and belles; 
I manage to pick up 
A fair friend, with whom I sup 

In some snug room at one of the hotels. 

I am drowsy through the day, 
But on the Great White Way, 

During the night and through the very small 
Hours before a brand 
New day dawns on the land, 

I'm the liveliest and gayest of them all. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 413 

Blithely I move among 

The pleasure-loving throng 
In gilded salons when the lights are bright. 

Ah, no habitue 

Of our town's White Way 
Is as care-free as I am, Gwen, at night. 

The pop of champagne corks. 

The sound of knives and forks, 
Song, laughter, music — I delight to hear 

All this ; and then the flow 

Of wit, and, later, — no. 
Why tell of joys snatched just as day draws near? 

Bohemia with its 

Kindly and clever wits. 
Its open-hearted, generous-minded men 

And women, whose free souls 

No earthly law controls. 
In such a world I mingle — now and then. 

! I am a dandy lad. 
I'm the sonny of my dad, 

And the idol, don't forget, of Logan Square. 

Say, I'll knock the stuffin' out 

Of the duffer who would doubt 
That my head has a sufficiency of hair. 

1 have done some things, of course. 
That have caused me slight remorse ; 

I am ever ready to admit the truth. 

I've ne'er gone the pace that kills, 
Though I've sown on barren hills 

Some wild oats in adolescent days of youth. 



414 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

There are those who glibly speak 

On religion, yet who seek 
Places where I'd blush suffusely were I seen. 

Why, when I my acts compare 

With most others, I declare 
My record looks particularly clean. 

Ne'er yet, when in a feud. 

Have I my hands imbued 
In blood ; I ne'er burnt barns, ne'er forged a will, 

Nor napped a kiddie, nor 

Burglarized a house or store. 
Nor picked a pocket, nor e'en tapped a till. 

I ne'er held trains up, nor 

Embezzled funds, therefore 
Through life I've exercised much self-restraint. 

Yes, negatively, I 

Have acted well, and my 
Conduct, consequently, cannot cause complaint. 

On the whole, I've been so good 

That if Angel Gabriel should 
Sound his trumpet now 'twould cause me no dismay, 

But with my usual grace. 

And a smile upon my face, 
I would join the ransomed ones without delay. 

For I am, I state with pride, 
Which I take no pains to hide, 

A High Ritualistic Churchman; hence I need 
But say that when life's o'er 
I shall gain the heavenly shore 

Where joys await those who believe in the right creed. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 415 

To be saved one must believe 

What theologians conceive 
As proper and correct. Right living may 

For our bodies do, but O ! 

" Right " believing will, we know, 
" Save the soul ", as I once heard a bishop say. 

By that the eminent 

And philosophic churchman meant 
That you must accept his views or else be — well. 

To avert the doom that he 

Foresaw we should agree 
With his hypothesis anent the place called hell. 

But I myself, fair Gwen, 

Have often thought that men 
Need not to such ideas pay any heed. 

Worship one God — just one ; 

Let each daughter and each son 
Of that God be good. Of dogma there's no need. 

A multiplicity 

Of Gods — e'en two or three 
Supreme Creators tend to complicate 

And becloud the matter ; though 

My knowledge, you should know, 
Of theologic doctrines is not great. 

Ecclesiastic views of mine 

May be wrong. I'm no divine. 
I don't wish to seem assertive. I know well 

Some phlegmatic natures need 

A club to stir them : hence a creed 
Is best for them — a creed that hints of hell. 



416 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

Hell where lost souls are to 

Perpetually stew- 
In seething mixtures of brimstone and oil. 

The saints on high (mark this) 

Derive their greatest bliss 
In looking down and watching sinners boil. 

Thus many, alas ! view those 

Future joys and future woes 
The saints and sinners are to know. I paint 

A picture orthodoxy must 

Accept. But O ! if true, I trust 
That I, Gwen dear, shall never be a saint. 

Hell! No, I'll not discuss 

The subject. Whyfore fuss 
O'er this archaic horror? The disgrace 

Of such a teaching ! It 

Is an insult to the wit 
And common sense of our aspiring race. 

O ! think what hell implies ! 

It is the worst of lies : 
One that has driven many a wretch insane. 

Eternal woe? Absurd! 

Where — where in all God's Word 
Can one an idea so revolting gain? 

" No rose without a thorn " applies 
To our earth life. Beyond the skies 

There's pleasure unaccompanied, Gwen, by pain. 
Heaven with hell may here below 
Be found annexed : o'er yonder, though, 

A heaven without a hell we may attain. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 417 

In paradise there'd be 

No happiness for me 
Knowing that somewhere in celestial space 

There were an awful hell. 

Verily I would rebel 
Against the monstrous author of the place. 

But one need have no fear 

That after this life here 
There'll be for some a hell prepared. Nay, nay. 

There'll be a heaven, though : 

And I'm happy, for I know 
Should it be denied me, I shall rest for aye. 

Rest ! Ah, Gwen, let me pause 

Here a moment. Why? Because 
That word is so delicious. O ! I love 

To dwell upon that word. 

Rest, rest — yes, undisturbed 
By hell's harsh shrieks or softer sound-waves from above. 

Heaven, I feel, can get 

Along, sweet Gwen McKnett, 
Without my company ; and as for hell — 

Well, possibly hell too 

May manage, Gwen, to do 
Without my presence. Who, ah, who can tell ? 

The probabilities 

Are that my absence from these 
Two places will prove no calamity 

To either ; e'en the earth, 

Whereon I had my birth. 
Never seemed to care especially for me. 



418 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

A stranger reading my 

Verses might think that I 
Am popular, but I am not. I've penned 

A few lines that may be 

Admired, but for me 
The world cares not. Gwen, you're my only friend. 

My one friend ! What need then 

To crave the love of men? 
To wish for other friendships? Yes, why sigh 

For popularity? 

'Twould not, if gained, make me 
Any happier. Why want it then — ah! why? 

Your friendship is indeed 

Sufficient, and I need 
None of the world's. I wonder, though, sometimes 

Why it is I am not more 

Popular in this world, for 
I'm not so bad, e'en if I do write rhymes. 

Through my being there doth run 

A religious vein ; no one 
Can fail to mark so palpable a fact. 

You may note it in my air, 

In the very clothes I wear, 
'Tis apparent in my every word and act. 

A phrenological survey 

Of my cranium this day 
Showed my bump of veneration to be great ; 

While my chiropodist, who knows 

The hidden language of the toes, 
Also found strong indications of this trait. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 419 

They who know me best have said 

That from the apex of my head 
To the soles of my aristocratic feet 

I appear to be possessed 

Of human nature's very best 
Attributes, and this explains why I'm so sweet. 

My ideals are sublime ; 

I would, had I the time. 
Recount them here. How many a poor soul needs 

Encouragement; and it 

Would likely benefit 
Posterity to read about my deeds. 

But time forbids, and they 

Who'll walk life's devious way 
When I rest from its labors and its strife, 

Must without help from me 

Work out their destiny. 
I can't tell now the story of my life. 

A notable career 

May be in this life here 
(As I en passant might succinctly state) 

Obtained by industry. 

Perseverance has made me 
A poet. One must work to become great. 

Success is gained by toil. 

Gallons of midnight oil 
['Twas gas I used, but oil in verse sounds best] 

Have I consumed o'er my 

Laborsome jobs, but I 
Love work; sometimes I'd rather work than rest. 



420 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

Ah ! Gwendolen McKnett, 

'Tis only by the sweat 
(Should I say " perspiration? ") of one's brow 

That one achieves success 

And wealth and happiness, 
All of which are — almost — in my grasp now. 

Almost, not quite, dear love. 

'Tis but a question of 
Time, merely time — or else eternity! 

But as time is so short. 

So fleeting, Gwen, I ought 
Soon be in the possession of the three. 

The prospect, though, of this 

Eternity of bliss, 
Which is so imminent, should cause no one 

To give up striving here 

For joys that are held dear. 
I shall struggle on as I have always done. 

My modesty, indeed. 

Is my chief fault ; I need 
Assurance, more — er — well, I might say " cheek " 

To successfully pursue 

Dame Fortune, and to woo 
From her the golden shekels, so to speak. 

A man — yes, even a 

Woman, dear Gwennie, may 
Be happy, quite so, without riches. Wealth 

Does not necessarily 

Mean happiness ; give me 
A competence, and love, and peace, and health. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 431 

Love! peace! health! contentment! 

If these to me are sent, 
With a competence— a neat one— thrown in, 

I could get along real well. 

Still it's very hard to tell ; 
Mankind seems ever hankering for more tin. 

I am no exception, Gwen, 

To the general run of men. 
That rapacious soul of mine, which fumes and frets 

In its imprisonment. 

May never be content 
Until it slumbers 'neath the violets. 

In time I might control 

My too aspiring soul. 
One learns some things in life ! it's a good school. 

So, ere the violets shed 

Their fragrance o'er my bed 
In earth's damp soil, my spirit I may rule. 

These various things I say 

Not in a boastful way, 
For boasting is a thing that I abhor ; 

But my candor is so great 

It compels me to relate 
My virtues to the maiden I adore. 

Not that you — that maiden— are 

Unaware how very far 
Superior I am to most mankind. 

But one's merits should not be, 

From mistaken modesty, 
Hidden where they would be difficult to find. 



422 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

They baptized me by a name 

Which was not so bad — the same 
Being Clifford. Well, it might have been much worse. 

They could have dubbed me " Walter " 

At the font there by the altar, 
As I lay helpless in the embrace of my nurse. 

Yes, " Clifford " they called me; 

The fore part seems to be 
All right ; it sounds well ; there my sponsors soared 

To heights supreme. Ah! if 

They had but stopped at Cliff. 
There's a shallowness, alas! about a ford. 

The christening, dear Gwen, 

Being over, I was then 
Driven home and carried, howling, to my cradle. 

While my relatives below 

Sat down with much gusto 
To the choicest viands ever set on table. 

A grace was duly said 

For the very generous spread ; 
The grace was short, and yet, before 'twas through, 

The grub 'gan to disappear. 

For the Fillupsers, my dear, 
Are no slouchers Avhen it comes to a menu. 

They ate while I did sleep. 

And they drank, too, long and deep : 

'Twas " a feast of reason and a flow of soul ". 
Ah! the ruddy wine went 'round, 
And my health, as since I found, 

Was drunk full oft from many a sparkling bowl. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 423 

Some kindly guests were so 

Desirous to show- 
By frequent toasts their liking for the kid, 

That ere the banquet's close 

They sank in sweet repose 
By the festive-board, 'neath which they soon were hid. 

The affair passed off real well ; 

The police were called to quell 
But few disturbances. There will, my pet. 

At family gatherings be 

More or less hostility. 
Which manifests itself in ways that I regret. 

Every household in the land, 

I am led to understand. 
Contains a skeleton kept out of sight ; 

But the presence of so grim 

A guest can never dim 
The sunshine of our homes love makes so bright. 

I was reared in luxury's lap, 

Noted chefs prepared my pap, 
And French nurse-girls tossed me on Parisian knees : 

Now I find in man's estate 

My taste for nurse-maids is as great, 
Whether they be English, French or Portuguese. 

It matters not to me 

Woman's nationality; 
They all have charms, and I can well enthuse 

Over any, even those 

Who less lovely traits disclose 
Serve quite well to interest me and amuse. 



424 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

As a study I commend 

To any philosophic friend 
That of female foibles; the subject can 

Open to one's mental view 

A world where lurketh not a few 
Of those mysteries as yet unsolved by man. 

I have delved most deeply in 
This rich mine, and I have been 

Fortunate in those discoveries there made ; 

The traits revealed, some most unique, 
Of which I care not now to speak, 

Have for all my work of research amply paid. 

" The proper study of mankind 

Is man." In Pope this line you'll find. 
Pope's head was level, and his thoughts sublime. 

Like me, he understood 

Man's capacity for good. 
As also man's capacity for crime. 

He read men's minds, he knew 

Their natures, and saw through 
Those subterfuges practiced to deceive : 

His glance, so keenly bent. 

Beneath the surface went : 
Though the malice of his shafts oft made one grieve. 

We poets, Gwen — we who 

Analyze the false and true. 
Have fuller knowledge of life's subtler side 

Than the average man, whose views, 

Unillumined by the Muse, 
Must perforce be less extended and less wide. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 425 

Our souls are unconfined. 

Chains, Gwendolen, may bind 
Our bodies to this transient mundane place, 

But O ! our minds are free. 

And in the spirit we 
Traverse ofttimes the vasty halls of space. 

On fleecy clouds we float 

To happy spheres remote : 
We hear the echo of that olden song 

Which greeted our earth 

The morning of her birth 
When she commenced her flight the stars among. 

Love's strong and loyal arm 

Guards us from every harm. 
And Peace in all its plenitude is ours ; 

While, free as birds at play, 

We pass full many a day 
With Flora in the midst of her gay bowers. 

We love the flowers, they 

Delight us on our way. 
Sweet blooms of garden, field, hillslope and wood, 

The clambering vines, the trees. 

The waving grasses — these 
All show how fair life is — how fair and good. 

A wild rose blossoming 

In the first days of spring 
So fresh, so pure, so beautiful, brings cheer 

To us ; while in the haze 

Of late autumnal days 
The radiant golden-rod is no less dear. 



426 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

The carol of the birds — 

That music without words — 
Strikes in our thankful hearts an answering chord ; 

And we rove through fairest scenes, 

While no shadow intervenes 
To cloud the joys those blessings do afford. 

So near to Nature's heart, 

Yet not despising art 
In its true sphere, we wend our way along 

Life's sunniest paths. And O 

The blessings that we know ! 
Who would not be, like us, a Son of Song? 

Sometimes on idle days 

Through forest depths we blaze 
Our way, to keep tryst with a woodnymph fair. 

This surely is no sin. 

No. " There's a pleasure in 
The pathless woods," as Byron doth declare. 

Coy sylphs of fair wood lands 

Wave their white lily hands 
And beckon us to their free rendezvous. 

To slight these denizens 

Of dewy dales and glens 
A true, chilvarous poet would not do. 

So we enjoy ourselves 

Disporting with the elves 
In mystic forests : yes, we mingle 'mong 

The driads, fauns and fays. 

While Pan pipes his sweet lays 
And the glad woods re-echo with Love's song. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 427 

O ! we do lead a life 

Apart from all the strife 
Of that rude world without : yet, dearest Gwen, 

We like that rude world's fun, 

And I — yes, I for one 
Rather like its women, too, as well as men. 

It is not wrong, nor yet 

Is it strange, sweet Gwen McKnett, 
That I should entertain a liking for 

A sex of which my Gwen 

Is a shining specimen, 
And one in which I fail to find a flaw. 

The cold, impassive man 

Who on earth's fair daughters can 
Gaze unmoved, commits the wrong : ah no, not he 

Who confesses frankly to 

The spell that maids like you 
Cast o'er tenderer hearts of masculinity. 

Wine, woman, song — these three. 

But the greatest one to me 
Is woman. I've extolled with tongue and pen 

Her charms; but of them all. 

Blonde or brunette, short or tall, 
There's none that can compare with peerless Gwen. 

Yes, of the world's Big Three — 

The world's blest trinity 
Woman is first. Her rule is absolute 

Here in this world so wide. 

She is creation's pride — 
Creation of which she's the perfect fruit. 



428 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

How often have you, Gwen, 

Played with the hearts of men. 
Men must, perforce, yield to such charms as yours. 

Your beauty casts a spell 

On men, as you know well. 
Ah ! men are weak, and beauty so allures ! 

If men go wrong, if they 

Do ever chance to stray 
From paths of rectitude, and err sometimes. 

Judge them not harshly, for 

The women they adore 
Are oft the instigators of their crimes. 

Though Adam sinned, would he 

Of that forbidden tree 
Have ta'en the fruit Eve filched had it not been 

For her cajoleries? 

Knowing the cause of these 
Moral lapses, one thinks lightly of man's sin. 

Yet there are times when I 

Can scarce restrain a sigh. 
O ! the wickedness so rampant nowadays 

Almost causes one to weep. 

Really I can hardly keep 
An undimmed eye while contemplating sin's dark ways. 

I've sufficient chivalry 

To forgive a man when he 
Sins for a woman's special profit. What 

If in a house he breaks. 

Loots a bank, or even takes 
Human life? For woman's sake I blame him not. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 429 

Women are or ought to be 

Exempt from any penalty- 
Attached to law's infringement. I contend 

That lovely woman can't do wrong. 

We've thwarted her sweet will too long : 
Let us for her the cruel laws amend. 

A woman oft is stoned 

For a crime that is condoned 
In a man. To me this doesn't seem quite straight. 

Either let the woman free 

Or stone both. Which shall it be? 
The matter's rather hard to regulate. 

Man has no right, we're told, 

From the fair ones to withhold 
The world's advantages, so-called. Let them — 

Women — be exempted too. 

That is in a worldly view, 
From the penalty of that sin we condemn. 

Yet nothing can prevent 

The resultant punishment 
Of any crime. A man who may defame 

His manhood suffers in 

His conscience for the sin, 
Although the world absolves him from all blame. 

There's no man 'neath the sun 

So wretched as the one 
Who has a guilty conscience : although wealth 

And, consequently, troops 

Of friends are his, what boots 
It all if he has lost his mind's sweet health? 



430 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

The mind's tranquillity 

Gone — gone forever, he 
Who has offended against God and man 

Is to be envied not. 

There's nothing can out-blot 
A wrong once done : not e'en forgiveness can. 

Thus sin the conscience sears 

In spite of what one hears 
Of man's immunity. A wrong, in fact. 

Can never be repaired. 

A man is never spared 
The haunting memory of a sinful act. 

Woman fares better here 

Than man, for it is clear 
Her conscience is a stouter one ; she can 

With more ease bear the weight 

Of sin however great. 
Yes, here a woman's stronger than a man. 

Remembered acts that might 
Have been — well, not just right 

[I won't say sinful — women cannot sin] 
Don't seem to worry her : 
She's not hampered, I infer. 

By conscience, as so many men have been. 

Ne'ertheless a woman may 
Be too restricted in our day. 

Abrogate for her the social laws; aye, give 
Her equal rights — e'en more 
Than man is blessed with ; for 

Extra license is her just prerogative. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 431 

Let her do as she lists. 

A jury that resists 
Her right is wanting in true gallantry. 

Give woman every time 

Carte-blanche to plunge in crime. 
She should, I think, be absolutely free. 

She — the world's pride and hope — 

Should be given larger scope, 
A broader field, a sphere that has no bound, 

In order that she might 

Wage a more equal fight 
With tyrant man upon life's battleground. 

Though hampered and confined 

By man's laws, womankind 
Yet manages in tragic days like these 

To hold her head above 

The swirling waters of 
Life's all too frequently tumultuous seas. 

Woman reasons little, yet 

She gets there, Gwen McKnett : 
Gets there by impulse, intuition — or 

Call it just what you may, 

She by the quickest way 
Attains with ease that which man strives so for. 

Through all the years of time 

Mankind has found its prime 
Source of comfort and of joy in woman — whose 

Gentle graces, tears and smiles, 

Mingling with her arts and wiles, 
Have inspired oft the votaries of the Muse. 



432 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

Milton [and I agree 

With him] hath said that she — 
Speaking of woman — is God's last and best 

Gift unto favored man. 

Though strongly put, who can 
Controvert that which the poet has expressed? 

The blind but observant bard 

Has, you see, a high regard 
For woman. Well, most poets have. You'll find 

That I (as might sometimes 

Be gathered from my rhymes) 
Also have a deep esteem for womankind. 

At her shrine I've bowed down, 
I've trembled at her frown, 
Her blame has turned my thoughts to death, but when 
She has praised me and smiled, 

! my heart has with wild, 
Delirious rapture leaped within me then. 

For her — ah yes, for her 

1 would, though no mariner. 
Navigate a barque upon the raging main : 

Or, if she preferred it, I, 
Though no aeronaut, would try 
Through the atmosphere to speed an aeroplane. 

For her the midnight oil 

I've burnt : for her no toil 
Has been too great for me to undertake. 

Sometimes I think that I 

Would not hesitate to die — 
Were it really necessary — for her sake. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 433 

Woman ! Ah, 'tis not mine 

Upon her brow to twine 
The laurel and the bay belonging there ; 

Let me in silence grieve, 

While happier poets weave 
The immortelles on brows that are so fair. 

When but a lad, ere yet 

My lip was downy, pet, 
Woman's influence o'er my young life was great : 

She was my star whose light 

Ever guided me aright; 
And now, in you, she overrules my fate. 

Before your bright eyes beamed 

Upon me, Gwen, life seemed 
A useless thing; with my own hand, who knows, 

I might, had we ne'er met, 

O Gwendolen McKnett, 
Have brought my life to an untimely close. 

True, I had tasted of 

The world's poor joys, but love 
Had not as yet my life illmned ; but when 

You burst upon my view 

Life had in store, I knew, 
The rarest happiness for me, dear Gwen. 

And when you smiled and spoke 

My soul, long dormant, woke. 
Then the full beauty, aye ! and glory of 

The world impressed me, Gwen, 

As ne'er before. I then 
First realized the power of true love. 



434 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

O mistress of my soul ! 

Fair enchantress, your control 
Over my destiny was prophesied 

Far back in halcyon days, 

E'er falsehood's blighting maze 
Obscured those joys Love scattered far and wide. 

In sturdy days, my Gwen, 

When men were brave, and when 
The maids were fair ; aye, fair as your dear self — 

When love was never sold 

Nor bought with paltry gold, 
When worth and merit ranked above mere wealth. 

In golden days — days of 

Peace, happiness and love: 
When the fair earth knew naught of war and strife: 

When good will and good cheer 

Prevailed among men here. 
And every blessing gladdened every life. 

O my darling ! O my more 

Than life itself ! You I adore 
With all the passion of my frenzied soul. 

Yes, love, for you I feel 

An idolater's fierce zeal 
That hades cannot curb nor yet control. 

I've sung of freedom, yea, 

And boasted in my day 
Of its delights ; but now how gladly I 

Would yield my liberty 

At Owen's feet, so that she 
Might ever rule me to the day I die. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT, 435 

To be, ah yes ! her thrall, 

Ever at her beck and call — 
Gods ! at the thought the hot blood rushes through 

Each pulsatory vein. 

No office could I gain 
Whose duties would be pleasanter to do. 

The tasks that Gwen McKnett 

Would condescend to set 
Her willing subject would be quickly done. 

Ah, let me ask who would 

Not think it very good 
To dance attendance on so fair a one? 

Her slightest word to me 

Would be as a decree 
I needs must heed. O ! I would be content 

Thus waiting upon her — 

A life-long servitor, 
In dread of naught excepting banishment. 

Outside my prison room 

The flowers each year might bloom, 
And hills and vales be rich with summer's green, 

And Nature, mayhap, smile 

On her handiwork the while. 
And songbirds' melodies make glad the scene : 

Atlanta's foamy shore 

Might with old ocean's roar 
Resound as in the days I trod thereon; 

While ships might sail afar 

Beyond the harbor bar 
To lands, it may be, 'neath a southern sun : 



436 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

But held a captive by 

My peerless Gwennie, I 
The fair world would renounce with no regret ; 

Its joys were far less real 

Than those that I would feel 
In the service of my dear exacting pet. 

Ah ! nevermore to stray 

From Gwennie' s side away, 
But close as her dear shadow I would be, 

Attending unto all 

Her wants, both great and small, 
In a proper spirit of servility. 

O ! I would never leave 

Her day or — er — or eve. 
O ! happy days and happy evenings of 

A vassalage like this, 

Of uninterrupted bliss, 
Of a life spent by the side of her I love, 

Of a joy I may not name. 

Of a heart in which the flame 
Of wild and miquenched longings glow these days : 

Of a dream beyond all dreams, 

Whose sweet fulfillment seems 
So near while in her soulful orbs I gaze. 

How beautiful and fair ! 

How strongly sweet and rare 
Is a life like mine swayed by love's mystic spell! 

Love makes a paradise 

Of a world that otherwise 
Would be, perhaps, a veritable hell. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 437 

Do I speak in terms too strong? 

Nay, my darling, it were wrong 
To speak other than I do of that which calls 

For unadulterated truth. 

The which I've told from earliest youth, 
And ever will — no matter what befalls. 

His Satanic Nobs, fair dame, 

I don't hesitate to shame: 
I tell the truth in poetry as in prose: 

Also, as is but right, 

In the sermons I indite. 
And in essays, tracts and all that I compose. 

I have no doubt at times 

Uttered platitudes in rhymes ; 
Some very inane lines I've doubtless penned ; 

Dull and prosy, too, I've been, 

But I ne'er commit the sin 
Of exaggerating facts to gain an end. 

Most men prevaricate 

When called on to relate 
Their fishing exploits, but not so with me: 

E'en here, my dear one, I 

Hesitate to tell a lie. 
I cite as proof of my veracity 

The case of that large trout; 

Its weight, as I found out, 
Was ninety pounds — I caught it in the spring. 

Now I ne'er swore it weighed 

A hundred pounds, fair maid : 
Though others would have done this very thing. 



438 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

Among my friends, fair Gwennie, 

There are doubtless very many 
(Your sweet self in their ranks may hold a place) 

Who think that I do go 

To an extreme in being so 
Observant of the truth in every case. 

But I'm so free from guile; 

It's my nature, pet, and while 
Your Clifford breathes this mortal life below 

It will be his highest aim, 

Not to acquire fame, 
But to tell the truth in which he revels so. 

There is so much being done 

In the way of lying on 
The slightest provocation : it might be 

Remarked here that the men 

In this respect are no worse, Gwen, 
Than the fairer portion of humanity. 

Think not that I'm inclined 

To disparage womankind. 
I reverence the sex, and so you must 

Not judge my views severe. 

No indeed, my Gwennie dear, 
I may be plain of speech but I am just. 

How often as one sips 

The honey from ripe lips 
Do doubts of their sincerity arise ; 

The words that issue through, 

Though false, may yet seem true, 
Until too late the scales fall from our eyes. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 439 

Yes, too late to regain 

The peace whose happy reign 
Once blessed those hearts that now are cold. Yet who 

Need care, e'en though Love lies 

A-bleeding? Is it wise 
To grieve because a woman proves untrue ? 

But there are lips atween 

Whose beauteous curves, I ween, 
No utterances of falsehood e'er flow through. 

Those lips, as you divine. 

Are yours. I would that mine 
Could this night meet them in a kiss or two. 

But now you are not here. 

So I'm compelled, my dear, 
To kiss the comely sirens who are nigh. 

Moore tells us that we may, 

When from loved lips away, 
Make love to those that happen to be by. 

Tom Moore's advice is sound. 

Yes, one is really bound 
Who goes through life to cull the sweets thereof. 

Undoubtedly a man 

May to his Matilda Ann 
Be true though he in Sail sees traits to love. 

Some may think otherwise, 

So I shan't dogmatize 
On a moot point ; one's mind perhaps may change. 

But there's no need for us 

The matter to discuss, 
Because from you my fancy ne'er can range. 



440 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

Now other girls I see — 

Girls who really dote on me, 
Girls of whose charms a poet well might sing ; 

But somehow they don't fill 

All that's called for on the bill. 
None but my Gwen can do this wished-for thing. 

you surpass them all, 
Your charms they never pall ; 

" Their infinite variety," to quote Shakespeare, 

" Age cannot wither nor 

Can custom stale." Therefore 
I'll prove ever loyal to my Gwennie dear. 

Time — grim old Time might fly, 

Aye! eons cycle by. 
Worlds be disrupted, crumble and decay — 

All this and more might be, 

But O ! the love in me 
For Gwen McKnett can never pass away. 

It is founded on a rock, 
Or rather on a frock — 
On the blue silk garment that you sometimes wear ; 

1 think you had it on 
That night we sat upon 

The sofa, in the alcove, by the stair. 

I 

And yet I am not sure 

Even of this: 'twas your 
Eyes — your expressive eyes, that were so bright. 

Which held my heart in thrall. 

O ! I was dead to all 
Other things when seated there with you — that night. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 441 

That night, Gwen, of the ball ! 

O ! I recall it all— 
The dance, the music and the merriment, 

The flowers and the feast, 

And last, but O ! not least, 
The time we in the cozy corner spent. 

We left the merry throng 

Awhile, nor thought it wrong 
In that sequestered spot to have a chat : 

'Twas there I told my love. 

Ah me, the sweet strains of 
A waltz came faintly to us where we sat. 

Yes, Gwennie, it was there 

That I my heart laid bare — 
There in the alcove. Do you not recall 

My protestations of 

An all-absorbing love. 
As I knelt by you that night at the ball ? 

Surely you don't forget, 

Gwendolen McKnett, 

My soul's outpouring. When a lover kneels 

To plead fittingly his cause. 

Can she whom he adores 
So soon forget his passionate appeals? 

1 live in memory 
That night again : I see 

Your face abeam with smiles. I hear again 

That waltz by Straus — The Blue 

Danube, and I with you 
Dance to its lively measure, dearest Gwen, 



442 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

That waltz ! O, Gwen McKnett, 

It haunts and thrills me yet : 
My dreams are gladdened by its cheerie flow 

Of melody. When near 

Life's end those strains I'll hear: 
They'll lull me to my endless sleep I know. 

The frou-frou of your gown 

Seemed, as we danced adown 
The festooned hall, to blend with those notes of 

That waltz song. The delights 

Of that night of all nights 
Are my chief gems in memory's treasure-trove. 

And when my time to die 

Arrives, 'twould satisfy 
My soul as from earth's clay it takes its flight 

Could it, my peerless Gwen, 

But hear the music then 
Of the swish of the ball-skirt you wore that night. 

The " rustling of a wing " 

(Strange " Bob " thought so!) might bring 
A joy to some ; but far more dear than all 

Other melodies unto 

My soul is the frou-frou 
Of that bifurcated skirt worn at a ball. 

O Gwen, sweet Gwen, my pride. 

When you are by my side 
This world of ours seems almost divine : 

That heart of yours I feel 

Is true as tempered steel, 
As it beats in unison with that of mine. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 443 

Yes, Gwendolen, to me 

You somehow seem to be 
The one above all womankind in whom 

So nicely concentrate 

All those virtues men call great. 
And which tend to rid this earth of all its gloom. 

When your fair face you turn 

Towards me, and I discern 
Thereon such kindliness unmarred by guile, 

I feel that I am blessed, 

That life hath for me a zest 
In the benediction born of your smile. 

Your graciousness doth add 

So much to make life glad. 
Precious are those dear ties that bind me to 

The object of my love. 

Why the very saints above 
Envy me for being smiled upon by you. 

The world most wisely finds 

In Shakespeare's Rosalinds, 
His sweet Violas and his Juliets, 

And other women, much 

To love; but they're not such 
True paragons as are the Gwen McKnetts. 

" What's in a name? " Well, more 

Than Shakespeare ever saw 
Or yet " dreamt of in his philosophy ". 

Had you lived in his time 

He would this truth sublime 
Have found and have acknowledged readily. 



444 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

And so your name, Gwen dear, 

Would much have pleased Shakespeare: 
He would have placed you foremost among those 

Fair heroines who claim 

Man's homage, and your fame 
Would be borne afar on every breeze that blows. 

Now I have looked around, 

But thus far have not found 
Another who would prove so sweet a pet. 

So cheer up, Gwen, don't fear, 

I'm too dead stuck, my dear, 
On those charms of yours to sour on them yet. 

You're not the first girl, Gwen, 

That I have loved, but then 
You're the only one whom I can love for aye. 

What a favored girl you are! 

Verily a lucky star 
Must have shone upon you on your natal day. 

You have my love. What more 

Gwen dear, can you ask for? 
I would shower wealth upon you if I could ; 

But as I can't, I'll do 

The next best thing for you — 
I'll deluge you with rhymes. Am I not good? 

The wealth, Gwen, of the heart 

Is best. If by my art 
I might convey to you that treasure which 

Is stored in mine, I feel 

I'd be doing you a real 
Generous act; for then (in rhymes) you would be rich. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 445 

Rich — yes, beyond dreams of 

Cold avarice. A love 
That fills a heart is worthy of regard. 

Why should a woman spurn 

Such a heart, and from it turn, 
E'en though it pulsates in an humble bard? 

I'm not that fickle kind 

Who, when they chance to find 
Another charmer warranted to please, 

Uncompunctiously shake 

Their former flame. I make 
The substitution only by degrees. 

I may be classed perhaps 

Among diplomatic chaps. 
I hate to wound one's feelings ; so I do 

Not exactly drop the old 

Till I have a dead sure hold 
On the new. But this does not apply to you. 

Where upon this mimdane sphere 

Breathes another lass so dear. 
So precious, as fair Gwendolen McKnett? 

O ! in you, dear love, I find 
■ The ideal that my mind 
Formed ere your charms my raptured gaze had met. ' 

I, of danger unforewarned. 

Succumbed the moment when there dawned 
Upon me charms so ravishing. I then 

Experienced a sense 

Of ecstasy intense. 
I'll ne'er forget when first I met my Gwen. 



446 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

Life's worth the living when 

We have with us our Gwen — 
Our own blithe lassie Gwennie. O her voice, 

Whether heard in song or speech, 

Has a power that might teach 
The coldest hearts to love and to rejoice. 

Her voice so fresh, so young. 
So clear, so sweet. I've hung 

As in a spell upon its every word : 
Its dulcet accents, fraught 
With love's glad truths, have taught 

Me lessons I before had never heard. 

Until my life's last hour 

Her voice shall have the power 

To spur me on to high and mighty deeds. 
I shall show, O ! Gwen McKnett, 
The world what it has not learned yet — 

That Cliff's soul can soar above mere bulbs and seeds. 

Her voice ! Has not its tone 

Reached at times high Heaven's throne, 
And caused the saints around it a surprise? 

And a happiness far more 

Complete than they before 
Have known in their experience in the skies? 

Speak then — speak now, fair sprite, 

That we who listen might 
Taste of Heaven's joy ere our life's lease is through. 

When death shall hush those notes. 

Why we can cut our throats 
And take the journey Heavenward with you. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 447 

Should your " flight " tend downward — no, 

'Tis not likely Jericho 
Will hereafter be your dwelling-place: and yet 

We could none of us forbear 

To follow you, if needs be, there; 
For our love has no set bounds, fair Gwen McKnett. 

Love ends not with the tomb. 

Whate'er may be the doom 
Of those whose charms have won in this life here 

The true love of their kind. 

Will after earth's life find 
Love still lives and of all joys is the most dear. 

But I must not, Gwen McKnett, 
Speak of death. Ah no, not yet 

Should this subject be discussed. There are, who knows. 
Weightier problems than this kind 
Which of ttimes engross your mind : 

Such as those deep ones that appertain to clothes. 

Dress in all its sweet details — 

Ribbons, sashes, laces, veils, 
Bonnets, turbans, hoods and all styles of headgear; 

Seal-skin sacques and various wraps, 

Bustles, lingerie, and perhaps 
Some things whose names to me are not quite clear. 

There are other thoughts no less 

As dear to womankind as dress: 
Now my pet is shrewd almost beyond her years, 

And well indeed she knows 

I speak now of the beaux. 
Without whom girlhood would dissolve in tears. 



448 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

Without the men, O ! what 
Would women do ? Would not 

Their interest in dress itself be lost? 

Would they even care to live 
When every joy life has to give 

Drifts away upon its seas so tempest-tossed? 

But this must never be, 
My Gwen's too fond of me: 

And — though it makes me jealous — yet I know 
She is fond of others too, 
And hence it would not do 

To banish men from one who likes them so. 

Yes, you like us: don't deny 

The soft impeachment: really I 
Am aware of only one whom you do hate. 

The exception merely goes 

To prove the rule. Ah, Gwennie knows 
That her love for all the rest of us is great. 

'Tis well that this is so ; 

Hence we must never go 
And leave our pet disconsolate. Ah, how 

Can we expect elsewhere 

To find another maid so fair 
As the damsel at whose shrine we worship now? 

No, we'll not leave you. How 

Could we forsake you now ? 
A thing that cruel we can never do. 

'Twould surely be too mean 

To shake our little queen. 
When she is so devoted and so true. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 449 

No, no indeed, not while 

Our angel's winsome smile 
Gladdens the earth will men e'er wish to die : 

Nor while we men have your 

Approval, pet, I'm sure 
You will not want to bid us a good-by. 

So we will tarry yet 

On earth, O ! Gwen McKnett, 
And breathe the air you breathe, and feel the same 

Delightsome thoughts that rise 

When eyes gaze into eyes, 
And glad hearts glow with love's undying flame. 

There will, methinks, be less 

Of mirth and joyousness 
Found 'mong strange saints in regions of the sky 

Than those which I do gain 

Right here upon life's plain, 
When that sweeter earthly saint — my Gwen — is by. 

But some day I shall know, 

And when my time to go 
To that far land beyond approaches, my 

Last thought before I start 

Shall be of my sweetheart. 
Whom I'll meet again in that blest home on high. 

There in that home we two 

May earth's happy ties renew : 
While other joys, that now we dream not of, 

Shall be ours, dear, for aye. 

I.et us then be blithe and gay, 
And drink and sing and dance and pray and love. 



450 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

Love especially, for this 

Is earth's supremest bliss, 
Within it are embraced the other four. 

Would our prayers ascend 

If love were dead, my friend? 
Would dance or song or drink please as of yore? 

Would beaming smiles so grace 

That fair and radiant face 
If love were not thus lingering close by? 

That voice ! O, would it still 

Its listeners enthrill 
Were love, triumphant now, to pine and die? 

If love should take its flight 

Would those eyes be so bright? 
Would they beam so tenderly, my dearest girl ? 

And, let me ask, would those 

Sweet terpsichorean toes 
Twirl so sprightly in the waltz's maddening whirl? 

Not so, dearheart ; therefore 

While Love is by to pour 
The sparkling wine, we'll take the proffered cup : 

And we will dance and sing, 

Aye, and make the welkin ring 
With the praises our full hearts shall offer up. 

Should hearts like ours shrink 
E'en from a fresh grave's brink 

Because of doubts? Ah no, my precious dove. 
Death does not separate 
The lives sealed here by fate: 

The grave cannot obliterate earth's love. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 451 

The world is fair, look you. 

Flesh and the devil too 
Are also fair when love — the love we know — 

Idealizes them. 

So let us not condemn 
Aught that adds to life's pleasures here below. 

Contrast, my Gwennie dear, 

A long and sad career 
With a short yet merry life, then tell me, do, 

Your preference ; to me 

The latter seems to be 
In every way the better of the two. 

I loathe a hypocrite. 

Give me your men of wit. 
Of liberal views, your bon vivants, by gad ! 

Life was not made for tears. 

Nor foolish doubts and fears; 
It were better to be merry than be sad. 

Be natural and admit 

Those feelings that may flit 
Across the mind : confess your tastes though they 

Be for rum, tobaccO' or 

For the lasses. It is more 
Commendable to walk on Truth's highway. 

" With mirth and laughter let 

Old wrinkles come." I get 
These lines from him whom gods praise on their thrones. 

" Let my liver rather heat 

With wine," (I still quote, sweet,) 
" Than my heart cool with mortifying groans." 



452 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

If generous living may 

Shorten our little day, 
And ere the wrinkles come we cross the line 

'Tween life and death — what then? 

Ah ! we'll not be turned, sweet Gwen, 
From the table's richest dishes and its wine. 

To Pleasure then, my own, 

I'll give my days : her throne 
Shall be the shrine at which I'll kneel me down : 

Her favors she'll confer 

On so true a worshiper : 
For me her face will never wear a frown. 

I'll revel in her smiles. 

And as music, dear, beguiles 
My vagrant fancy she will tell me all 

Her choicest stories of 

That wondrous thing called love. 
And the joys that spring therefrom which never pall. 

On flowery beds of ease 

I'll lie whilst listening to these 
Rare tales of love. Though 'twill be sweet to live 

In Pleasure's court, I'll miss 

Therein that greater bliss 
Which the presence of my Gwen alone can give. 

For when away from her 

I, as one might infer. 
Am torn with grief. Hope, though, my spirit cheers 

As a radiant vision of 

The one girl whom I love 
Amid the circumambiant gloom appears. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 453 

My sweeter life — the one 

Without which I'm undone. 
My dearer self, without whom ah ! what were 

The world and all therein? 

What would my life have been 
If I had never on this earth met her ? 

She knows so well my ways, 

And blissful are the days 
Passed in each other's company : we throw 

Aside all worldly cares, 

And 'long life's thoroughfares, 
Hands joined and hearts aflushed with love, we go. 

With joy's light in our eyes 

We walk 'neath sunny skies. 
The city streets celestial do appear. 

Our way, most beauteous friend, 

Through Elysium we wend ; 
Each day that dawneth brings our souls more near. 

There comes no prescience of 

A time when our love 
Will be dethroned. Naught can our lives estrange: 

No vandal's vengeful hand 

Can rend apart the band 
Which binds those hearts that time can never change. 

The world is very bright 

And beautiful : I'm quite 
Sure woman makes it so. Her smiles afford 

A joy that makes life dear 

To man upon this sphere. 
An Eveless Eden we don't want restored. 



454 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

O ! why does my life seem 

So like a happy dream? 
Ah, Gwendolen McKnett, it is that you 

Have taught me how to love 

That now the skies above 
Are tinted with a brighter, tenderer blue. 

Sweet are the flowers of spring, 

Sweet are the birds that sing 
Among the trees in balmy summer ; sweet 

It is to listen to 

The laughter of the children who 
Play on the sands near where the seawaves beat. 

But sweeter than all these 

Is the bright smile one sees 
On Gwendolen's fair face. How incomplete 

Would be this life to me 

If I should never see 
That happy face lighted with smiles so sweet. 

There are too many stern 

And chilling visages, that turn 
The milk of human kindness into gall ; 

By my Gwen's face ever shone 

With a radiance all its own. 
Diffusing blessings everywhere on all. 

In the light of that dear face. 
With its rare and perfect grace. 

Who would not esteem it glorious to live? 
O ! my spirit mounts on wings 
Far above life's grosser things, 

Whilst I contemplate this lot that fate might give. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 455 

So much of joy to gain ! 

The thought inflames my brain : 
Parched is my throat and feverish my tongue : 

My legs (ah! pardon, pray — 

My limbs I meant to say) 
Seem to wabble, while my nerves are all imstrung. 

A blest futurity 

By the side of Gwen ! Ah me ! 
The overpowering prospect makes me faint : 

My senses reel — I gasp. 

And in the dark I clasp 
The warm, fair, jeweled hands of my sweet saint. 

Those firm yet gentle hands. 

Although in distant lands 
I'm called to roam, yet, dearheart, they will not 

Lose their power over me : 

No, those hands across the sea 
Would still exert an influence o'er my lot. 

Reaching across the main. 

Those firm hands would restrain 
Me from undue excesses and, perchance, 

Endangering escapades 

With flirtsome foreign maids, 
In the gay metropolis of la belle France. 

Those hands so kind and true. 

Unselfishly they do 
Their share in work that charity affords. 

Most blessed work, ah yes ! 

Prompted by kindliness. 
Not by hopes of future payments and rewards. 



456 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

Those brave hands. Day by day 

Most diligently they 
Pursue their tasks, no duty do they slight. 

There's indeed a charm in those 

Slender fingers that enclose 
So tigthly in their grasp a heart this night. 

Those white and shapely hands. 

As their possessor stands 
In her loveliness, so proud and O ! so great, 

Her adoring slave — myself — 

Would not for all earth's wealth 
Exchange his fetters for a freer state. 

Those eager, clinging hands. 

What ! I unloose the bands 
That they have fashioned 'round me strong and true? 

No, I hug the chains whose links 

Hold me a captive. Ah, methinks 
A love- wrought chain should last life's journey through. 

Those hands so small, so soft, 

So skilled, so sure. How oft 
I've watched them deal the cards on nights when I 

At the round table met 

The poker-playing set. 
Ah, some of us went broke when stakes were high. 

Who at times does not get left? 

From those dexterous, those deft 
And dainty digits we not always gained 

The bits of pasteboard for 

Which we finessed. We bore 
Like true gamesters, though, the losses we sustained. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 457 

It is well to be resigned 

To our fate. The much maligned 
Gaming-table teaches us how good a thing 

Resignation is: I'm told 

It should ever be extolled 
As a virtue worthy of acquiring. 

Talking of virtues, let me state 

Here my darling's most marked trait — 
It is kindliness. Ah, I have never heard 

That Gwendolen McKnett 

Has ever, ever yet 
Denied the lowliest one a kindly word. 

A gracious smile bestowed 

Here and there along life's road 
On those less favored toilers we oft meet, 

Brightens full many a heart 

And displays a Christian's part, 
Which in after years may make our lives more sweet. 

Kindness disarms our foes; 

Thrice blessed the heart that knows 
Its presence. O ! it moveth one to do 

Acts that comfort and make glad 

Many who might else be sad 
Oftentimes in passing life's rough places through. 

Never yet were kind words lost. 

And how little do they cost! 
Yet there are those who prize them more than gold. 

These remarks are trite no doubt. 

But truth redeems them, and without 
Any impropriety truth may be told. 



458 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

He who would for no real cause 

Refuse a beggar who implores 
A crust of bread, is no worse than the one 

Who, without a reason, could 

Withhold a word that might do good. 
Yet men, and women, too, these things have done. 

Strange — ^yes, strange is this phase 

Of character. Men's ways 
At times seem scarcely human : some appear 

Dead to that sense of good 

In our common brotherhood — 
Which other, happier natures find so dear. 

Brothers, in a sense, we are — 
A truth divine, and yet how far 

From all its goodly lessons we oft stray : 

The cold disdain, the haughty air, 
Ignoring those with whom we share 

The precious hours of each passing day. 

" Man's inhumanity," 

I'm quoting Burns you see, 
" Makes countless thousands mourn." Was Robert too 

Severe? Ah! I'm inclined 

To think that we can find 
Men in our time whose hearts are kind and true. 

In these late days one reads 

Of grand, heroic deeds 
Done; not as in the past when men waged war, 

And 'mid its deathbolts gained 

A fame, while others, slained, 
Lay in vast heaps on fields stained red with gore: 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 459 

But deeds of valor done 

By men and women on 
The fair fields of these peaceful days. Ah yes! 

To benefit their kind 

How many we do find 
Who risk their lives in all true willingness. 

Not in war's deadly strife 

For conquest's sake is life 
Best sacrificed : and we might clearly learn 

A lesson as we see 

How kindliness can be 
More apt than hate a lasting fame to earn. ' 

O noble lives ! Has it 

Been meant for us to sit 
And idly dream, and leave unto the rest 

Life's duties? Should we shirk 

The blest and gracious work 
Of helping the downtrodden and distressed? 

Now I am no moralist — 

Though 'twould seem so from the gist 

Of these passing dissertations — yet I say, 
With a reverence sincere. 
That kind Heaven must hold dear 

All courteous acts performed on Life's highway. 

But a little while, and then 

We shall leave these scenes, my Gwen. 
The life that waits us yonder is not known. 

We are likely though, dear friend, 

To attain a peaceful end 
By kindly acts to those with whom we're thrown. 



460 • GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

Whether at home, my gentle maid, 

Or 'mid the busy scenes of trade, 
In stores, in offices or on the street, 

To stand aloof in chilly state 

Is a thing I deprecate ; 
A benignity of manner is more meet. 

So don your silken gown, 

Look your prettiest ; don't frown 
On any one — smiles more become your face. 

Be a sunbeam in whose rays 

Your Cliff may bask these svmimer days, 
A joy he is all willing to embrace. 

Life at the best is short, 

And therefore, pet, we ought 
To cull its flowers in youth's gala time. 

[Aint this sentiment put neat? 

Do you get unto it, sweet? 
You bet your life I don't get left on rhyme.] 

I've got the thing down fine; 

This " afflatus " called " divine " 
I possess, love, in an eminent degree. 

I am fly, and no mistake, 

When called upon to wake 
The tuneful spirit of true melody. 

I am never at a loss 

To express myself ; of course 

This fact is clearly shown in all I write. 
Good verses are a treat — 
Let me add, without conceit, 

That mine always prove a wonder and delight. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 461 

In imagery I'm rich, 

And the forceful strength with which 
I grasp a subject causes much surprise. 

I can talk of love, of war, 

Call forth one's laughter, or 
Can bring the tears to sympathetic eyes. 

I may with absolute 

Propriety refute 
The baseless charge of insincerity 

Formulated by a few 

Superficial readers, who 
Fail to see that I can think most seriously. 

If I treat a solemn theme 

Rather lightly, if I seem 
Careless, even frivolous, is it fair 

To call me callous? Nay, 

I, as Tennyson might say, 
Understand " the depths of some divine despair." 

Of life's disappointments I 

Have had very likely my 
Full share; hence I have suffered, and I might 

Therefore add I've learned to feel 

That life is earnest, stern and real. 
As is clear to all who read my lines aright. 

I'm not always at my best. 

Even Homer and the rest 
Of my prototypes have nodded at odd times; 

But with frankness I assert 

That I'm generally alert 
At such times when my soul gropes around for rhymes. 



462 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

I'm not satisfied with less 

Than perfection, and I press 
Ever onward with unfaltering steps along 

My way; and e'er life's close 

I may realize all those 
High ideals that I've immortalized in song. 

Fame though, I now begin 

To see, is hard to win; 
There's no royal road thereto. What if I may 

Obtain the plaudits of 

The world ? Alas ! its love 
Is fickle, and it passes soon away. 

" All is vanity." This view 

Of life may not seem true 
To your young optimistic mind : but then 

Solomon, who spake thus, may 

Have been right; for in his day 
He was, we know, the wisest of all men. 

A criticism terse 

Was passed upon some verse 
Of mine once which I never have forgot : 

My critic was a bright 

And very erudite 
Young lady, and she said that I wrote — " rot ". 

Her calling my lines " birni " 

Drove me that day to rum. 
I failed, however, to obtain the cheer 

Sought for at many bars. 

Night with its myriad stars 
Saw me reel homeward filled with grief and — beer. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 453 

It cut me like a lash 

To have my lines called trash 
By one so pretty, gifted, and so wise. 

In fact, I was so stung 

That, being rather young, 
I registered beneath the darkling skies 

A vow that some day I 

Would show the world that my 
Effusions were, if not perhaps sublime, 

At least not quite as bad 

As my fair critic had 
Declared with so much hauteur at the time. 

Her accentuated air 

Of disdain when laying bare 
The imperfections of my verse, caused me, 

More than aught else, to take 

An oath that I would make 
My name known in the world of poesy. 

Now doubtless this may strike 

One as most Byronic like. 
Attacks of Scotch Reviewers, we are told, 

Spurred Byron on to fame; 

Inmiortal is his name, 
While his Scotch foes in unknown graveyards mould. 

My case is different, I 

Was really goaded by 
A young girl's strictures into writing rhyme. 

I've not yet achieved renown; 

Fame's imperishable crown 
May, however, grace that brow of mine sometime. 



464 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

I wield a facile pen 

As you well know, my Gwen; 
It responds so to my will and ne'er grows tired. 

It really seems at times 

To anticipate the rhymes 
That come thronging in my mind when I'm inspired. 

Often at midnight, when 

The world's asleep, my pen 
Records the thoughts that may, when I am dead, 

Bring me posthumous fame, 

And keep alive my name 
'Mong those whose lives my words have comforted. 

Sometimes in life's routine 

Certain incidents, I ween. 
Of a nature not to be divulged, occur : 

Hence I'm under, so I feel, 

No compulsion to reveal 
Any happenings of such a character. 

Take that time when we — but I 

Would of course much rather die 
Than state the circumstance ; so have no fears, 

Safe in your Clifford's breast 

The secret, love, shall rest, 
Never to be whispered into mortal ears. 

Close-locked forevermore 

Within my bosom's core 
Is that occasion when we grew — ah well. 

Somewhat overbold, I fear, 

A chaperone not being near, 
And we, ahem ! we — no, I mustn't tell. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 455 

No, I'll not allude to that 

Delicious time when we two sat 
Cheek by jowl upon the self -same Morris chair, 

How with one impulse our — well, 

This is not a thing to tell, 
And I'll ne'er disclose what happened then and there. 

O moments of delight 

When lips with lips unite! 
Of them I durst not even dimly hint. 

Those moments, I opine. 

Are too sacred and divine 
Ever to be recorded in cold print. 

I've surely had no lack 

Of joys: in looking back 
On life I mark how brightly they appear. 

Indeed, I question much 

If e'en in heaven there's such 
Ecstatic bliss as I have known here. 

Dost doubt the truth of this? 

Why I have had the bliss 
Of knowing you; sometimes you've been to me 

Most kind. Therefore need I 

My statement qualify? 
No, it should stand; 'twas made advisedly. 

A library were too small 

To hold a tithe of all 
That I might say. Time doesn't quite allow 

Recording fully here 

The chief events of my career ; 
I shall speak of them anon, but not just now. 



466 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 

Aided and abetted by 

The Muse of Poesy, I 
Shall in majestic phrases soon be heard. 

I'll describe the deeds I've done, 

My amours, the conquests won — 
All of which have made my name a household word. 

Yes, I shall — but bless me, Gwen, 

I am digressing. When 
I started on these stanzas, be it known, 

It was my intention to 

Tell of those sweet traits that you 
Possess — and I've dwelt mainly on my own. 

Well, it can't be helped you know ; 

The thing is done, although 
I deplore somewhat my strange f orgetfulness. 

But at a future time 

I may probably in rhyme 
Dilate upon the charms that you possess. 

I shall let my fellow men 

Know the virtues of my Gwen — 
Of her kindliness, her charity, and all 

Her rare qualities of mind 

And of person. Yes, I find 
That precious parcels always do come small. 

O ! it's I who'll write the song 
The world has waited for so long, 

And it's you, dearheart, who will the song inspire. 
Ah, the Muse will lend her aid 
While the charms of such a maid 

Are sung with all a lover's wonted fire. 



GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 457 

With this song, then, in view, 

I'm better able to 
Draw to a close these rambling rhymes: therefore 

I bid you, Gwen McKnett, 

Goodbye: or, rather, let 
Me say — it is more fitting — Au revoir. 



468 A MODEL MAN. 

To W. A. C * * * * * * — that broad-minded and genial phil- 
osopher, that accomplished man of letters, of business, of senti- 
ment and of the world — this poem is affectionately dedicated. 

I am a drummer — pray don't shrink, 

I never swear, nor lie, nor drink: 

I am, as one might say, the pink 

Of pure perfection, " I don't think ". 

Yes, I'm the boss exponent of 

All that is worthy of one's love. 

Though not a saint, I claim to be 

A model of propriety: 

My faults are few, my virtues are, 

Ah yes! too nmnerous by far 

To mention here ; besides, just now 

My modesty will not allow 

A revelation of the same. 

Some day when my distinguished name 

Is blazoned on the Roll of Fame, 

Those striking attributes of mine 

Will all be known, I opine; 

And men in every land and clime, 

Who love the mighty and sublime. 

Will with profound amazement hear 

The story of my strange career : 

They'll marvel when the tale is told 

Of acts so daring and so bold. 

Heroic acts are bound to gain 

The world's applause, hence I'll obtain. 

Ere many years have onward whirled, 

The praise of an enraptured world ; 

My due of course, no more, no less, 

As I may frankly here confess. 

Yes, when my virtues are revealed 



A MODEL MAN. 469 

All other heroes in the field 

Must stand aside ; I am the one 

Who shall be styled Earth's favorite Son, 

Before whom lesser lights will pale, 

Or pass into Oblivion's vale. 

Ah yes ! indeed, posterity 

Without a doubt will hear of me: 

'Twill know me as a man of deeds. 

Who sold Root-beer, and Plows, and seeds. 

And unadulterated ( !) spice, 

And Beans, and Oats, and " Death-to-Lice ". 

(Parenthetically here 

I'd say this of the seeds and beer : 

That while the seeds would germinate, 

The beer would not intoxicate.) 

Posterity, as it surveys, 

With retrospective glance, these days, 

Will note how great a part I played 

Upon the busy marts of trade: 

'Twill catch on to the fact that I 

Was most particularly fly. 

Yet at the same time will agree 

That there were never flies on me. 

This seems a most felicitous stroke 

Of paradox combined with joke. 

Well, 'tis a way I've got sometimes 

Of intermingling with my rhymes 

Such quaint conceits. I might do worse 

Than this when dipping into verse. 

But I digress. My vagrant Muse, 

Whose bidding I cannot refuse. 

Allures me from the beaten track 

To which I now must hasten back. 

But, in resuming, I shall drop 



470 A MODEL MAN. 

Commercial subjects. Wliy talk shop? 
Business, with which I've thiis far dealt, 
Has its attractions, but I've felt 
Within me certain thoughts more dear 
Than those called forth by seeds or beer. 
From traffic's sordid strife I turn: 
For other things my soul doth yearn. 
On History's impartial pages, 
Recorded for all future ages. 
Those grander qualities of mine 
Will with resplendent lustre shine: 
I, in a sense, will live alway. 
What boots it if my coffined clay 
Crumbles to elemental dust? 
For me there'll be the sculptured bust, 
Wliich, in Fame's Temple broad and high. 
The loftiest niche will occupy : 
And hero worshipers will throng 
Around its base with gladsome song ; 
They'll deck my brow, my brow so classic, 
(Which then, alas! will be but plastic,) 
With wreaths of laurel, while they gaze. 
Spell-bound, upon the bust for days. 
My grave (and I say now and here 
I contemplate it without fear) 
Will be the Mecca, so to speak, 
Of multitudes, who fain would seek 
For hope that might uplift the race, 
For inspiration and for grace. 
The tears of women will be shed 
Because of the illustrious dead ; 
Their knight is gone, their eyes will dim 
Because of him, because of him. 
With fairest flowers they will cover 



A MODEL MAN. 471 

The tomb of gallant knight and lover. 

How sacred doth a flower appear 

On which hath dropp'd a woman's tear. 

Flowers ! the fragrant token of 

Respect, of friendship and of love. 

Emblems they are that sweetly show 

The better side of life below. 

A rose fixed in a woman's hair 

Adds to the glory one sees there: 

And fitting is it that the bay 

Should crown the hero of the day. 

Can one who gazes on a flower 

Be doubtful of a higher power 

Than that of man's? Nay, no sane mind 

Writhes with a doubt of such a kind. 

How beautiful this earth of ours — 

Blest with woman ! blest with flowers ! 

We men who love them both should give 

Our heart-thanks now because we live. 

I have a rose — a faded rose; 

I value it because of those 

Dear days it calls to mind ; ah me ! 

Days when I had a friend, but she 

Has passed from out my life, and now 

I feel its loneliness somehow. 

I grieve ; it is — as you infer — 

Because of her, because of her. 

But grieving, look you, is all folly : 

Away, away with melancholy. 

The Jester's cap and bells for me, 

And merriment and melody. 

I meant not to have struck a chord 

Disclosing grief ; and if I've bored 

The reader of these lines, I ask 



472 A MODEL MAN. 

Forgiveness. Henceforth I shall bask 

In the glad light of Pleasure's smile; 

My heart must not break yet awhile: 

What if a canker's gnawing there, 

I know how to be quit of care. 

Not by the cutting short of life, 

Not by the shot-gun, nor the knife, 

Nor by the poisoned draught : these means 

Of leaving life's tumultuous scenes 

May suit some wretches, but for me 

The journey towards the tomb shall be 

The longer way: this will best suit 

My taste, and hence I'll take that route. 

I'll trip along my tombward way 

With lightsome heart and spirits gay: 

I'll play the races, yes, I'll back 

The favorite runners on the track : 

I'll haunt those gorgeous places where 

I am assured the game is square: 

When stakes are high I'll take a hand, 

I have the necessary sand. 

To cards, however, I'll resort 

When not engaged in other sport. 

Gaming of course excites the brain, 

But 'tis too quiet, I maintain, 

For one convivial like me : 

I crave hilarious revelry. 

Where woman, song and wine abound 

I shall most usually be found. 

My life will be a merry one. 

If shortened — well, what harm is done? 

I'll go the pace, you may depend. 

Unto the end — unto the end. 

In gilded halls I'll oft be found, 



A MODEL MAN. 473 

And, when the flowing-bowl goes 'round, 

I'll drink therefrom. Who can withstand 

That draught when woman's jewelled hand 

Dispenses it? A woman's will 

Is law to man : so let her fill 

The glass, we'll drain it for her sake, 

If not our own. Yes, we will take 

The proffered cup; we'll drink to her, 

We'll sip the wine, but will prefer 

The sweeter and more thrilling sips — 

The nectar, look you, of her lips. 

The man who will not when he may 

Is but a dolt, a chump, a jay, 

A namby-pamby mountebank, 

A cad, a pusillanimous crank. 

Pah ! he is 'neath contempt, and so 

I'll check my scorn — I'll let him go. 

I turn to woman, without whom 

This life on earth were one of gloom. 

Woman, thy worth we recognize — 

We men, and, gazing in thy eyes, 

A grateful prayer comes to our lip 

For thy endeared companionship : 

For thy sweet ways, for thy true heart, 

For all — ah yes ! for all thou art. 

Alas ! it is not mine to tell 

The thoughts that now within me well : 

Too feeble are my pen and tongue. 

Let abler poets, who have sung 

Of worthy themes, now gladly raise 

Their tuneful notes in woman's praise: 

Let them essay the happy task ; 

To live and love is all I ask. 

Ah! are there greater joys above 



474 A MODEL MAN. 

Than this : to live, to live and — love ? 

To live and love ! But come, I meant 

Not to indulge in sentiment. 

I am a man of moods, you see ; 

Believing in variety, 

Which is the spice (the pun forgive) 

Of life : and one should rightly live. 

One in the spice line learns a deal ; 

More than 'tis proper to reveal. 

Of hiunan nature I have made 

A study : it is well in trade 

To read men's minds in order to 

The likelier make sales, look you. 

It showeth genius (or else cheek) 

To sell a man a pound of leek 

When he wants beans, but this I've done 

Full oft. The fact is I have won 

Distinction as a hypnotizer. 

Last week I sold an Atomizer 

To one who wanted Cloves : this will 

Show my surpassing business skill. 

A man besought me on his knees 

For Corn once ; I sold him Peas. 

I could no doubt with equal ease 

Have booked his order for Swiss Cheese. 

And did the peas 2i^-pease the buyer? 

No, but you see my fee was higher : 

Or, technically speaking, my 

" Commission " was somewhat more high. 

My mission in the world is to 

Obtain cora-missian — which I do. 

My heart, which melts where love prevails, 

Is adamant when making sales. 

That piteous cry for Early Corn 



A MODEL MAN. 475 

I treated with supremest scorn. 

Now it is well to mention here 

A fact which doubtless may seem queer. 

'Tis this: that I in love affairs, 

More than in selling sundry wares, 

Obtain my greatest triumphs : yes. 

As well as my chief happiness. 

The man who is successful in 

The business world is sure to win 

Success in love: and this is so. 

As my experiences show. 

Think not that I have never felt 

The master passion. Ah ! I've knelt 

At Beauty's shrine: I've worshiped there, 

And felt the while that life was fair 

And worth the living. Yes, to me 

Has come love's thrill of ecstasy; 

And 'neath its spell my soul hath soared 

To taste of joys in heaven stored. 

I am, you see, a man of parts ; 

But it is in the game of hearts 

I most excel : there my forte lies. 

Hearts are the trumps and mine the prize. 

My play is brilliant, strong and bold ; 

The winning cards I always hold : 

I crush my rivals, and, of course, 

Their fate fills me with no remorse. 

Love's tournament is not for boys : 

They who contest for its high joys 

And for its favors must possess 

Man's virile force and sturdiness. 

The youth of adolescent age 

Must step aside while men engage 

In royal competition for 



476 A MODEL MAN. 

The favors Beauty has in store : 

In store for him whose deeds proclaim 

A hero worthy of the name. 

A woman's smile may be the prize — 

A smile that beams forth from her eyes ; 

And for that smile men venture all. 

A life — the sacrifice is small — 

Is lost. Why not? the prize is high 

And men will do, and dare, and die. 

" Our ends are shapened," says Shakespeare, 

" By destiny." The Bard, I fear, 

Is right, alas ! Man who is born 

Must live his life: work, love, and mourn 

Until his little day has fled 

And he is numbered with the dead. 

We are but puppets in Fate's hands. 

And needs must do as she commands. 

But stop — I'm sermonizing now ; 

A serious mood has seemed somehow 

To come upon me, and I find 

My usually careless mind 

Filled for the nonce with thoughts that make 

The stoutest mortal sometimes quake. 

Death — dreadful thought ! And yet there is 

A something in the thought, I wis, 

Not all unpleasing. Death! ah, we 

Have no real cause to shrink from thee. 

Rest for the tired heart and brain 

Thou bringeth. Is not this a gain ? 

Does death end all? It cannot be: 

Nay, it but sets the spirit free. 

Thus we are taught : it may be so, 

But do we know? Ah! do we know? 

Go ask the mitered priest, and he 



A MODEL MAN. 477 

Will discourse on futurity 

As glibly as I do on seeds. 

(He talketh well, this man of creeds.) 

But does he know? List! hear him tell 

About a heaven and a hell. 

With much ecclesiastic grace 

He vividly describes each place. 

I sit and marvel in my pew, 

I ask can such ideas be true. 

I'm not a scoffer: I respect 

All earth's religions; they direct 

Their votaries to live aright, 

Which is most proper ; I am quite 

Convinced of that. The point with me — 

A stumbling block as you will see — 

Is this: to which should I belong? 

If one be right, the rest are wrong. 

Which of these many faiths is the 

True, Simon-pure, correct one? See? 

Am I to clap me on the chest 

And boast that I possess the best? 

I may laud spices, but the line 

I always draw at things divine. 

'Tis natural that a man should cling 

To early teachings ; years may bring 

Increase of knowledge, new ideas, 

New thoughts, new truths, and with the years 

His mind will broaden : he will change 

In all things save (nor is this strange) 

Those theologic views which he 

Imbibed beside his mother's knee. 

Now I, who am conservative, 

Am likely while on earth I live 

To hold fast, as indeed I ought. 



478 A MODEL MAN. 

To that belief in childhood taught : 

It may be false, but who dare wrest 

A pleasing fancy from one's breast? 

It matters little just what are 

My views religious, it is far 

From my intention to narrate 

My private notions: I'll but state, 

In brief, that I am what I am — 

"The Church" may bless, perhaps may damn 

Me for my independence here. 

Well, well, her damns I do not fear. 

E'en threats of excommunication 

Don't signify in our free nation : 

In Spain they might, but we're too wise 

To let such measures terrorize. 

The conscience, mark you, is the thing. 

Not the commands of pope or king. 

To which all should defer. Ah ! then 

Joy will illume the lives of men. 

Now man, thank God, has every right 

To think according to his light: 

To use his reason, small or great, 

Unhindered by the Church or State. 

The world improves : there was a time 

When views like these were deemed a crime; 

The conscience then was overawed 

By viceroys, so-called, of the Lord. 

Presumptuous man! upon my word, 

This claim is almost too absurd : 

Its arrogance quite shocks us, while 

Its rich grotesqueness makes us smile. 

The wanton blaspheme of the claim 

Should bring, methinks, the blush of shame 

Upon the cheeks of those who try 



A MODEL MAN. 479 

To bolster up the olden lie. 

Now I respect, as I have said, 

All earth's religions, yet I'm led 

To speak sometimes in language strong 

Of dogmas that are clearly wrong. 

It is with no unkindliness 

That I these various views express. 

I love my fellow men and would 

Do them a service, if I could. 

I'd rid their minds of ghostly fears, 

Their lives of doubt, their eyes of tears : 

I'd strike a blow, in my small way, 

'Gainst superstition's deadly sway. 

But I diverge : the fact is I 

Am what I am because of my 

Past training. It is so with all. 

Early surroundings, which they call 

Environment, has much to do 

With one's belief through life : how few 

Are the exceptions ! Now just here 

Is food for thought, for it is clear 

That had we been in Turkey bred, 

We'd be Mohammedans instead 

Of what we are. Ah me ! the more 

One studies theologic lore 

In this and in far distant lands. 

The less one really understands 

Its mysteries. Should this not teach 

That tolerance is best to preach? 

Best still to practice? Why should men, 

In that which is beyond their ken. 

Be so cock-sure? Ah, is it wise 

For any one to dogmatize? 

Who knows? who knows? And— but no more. 



480 



A MODEL MAN. 



This must be tedious ; yes, must bore 

Those who so graciously intend 

To read on, even to the end 

Of my remarks. From grave tO' gay 

'Twere best to turn before I lay 

My pen aside. Yet as I draw 

Nearer the finis I am more 

Inclined to sadness. Strange, most strange 

How fate steps in to disarrange 

One's fond desire ; here I had 

Meant to be jolly, yet I'm sad. 

This mystery of heart and brain 

Who can explain? Who can explain? 

Whyfore should one who Avould be jolly 

Be a prey to melancholy? 

Whyfore should laughter turn to tears? 

Whyfore should hope give way to fears? 

On pleasure's heel why follow pain? ' 

Who can explain? who can explain? 

But stop. I must not moralize 

Over these questions that arise : 

They are too deep. Ah yes ! to me 

The whyfore of the why must be 

An unsolved problem : for a man 

Immersed in business really can 

Have little time to spend on these 

Multifarious mysteries. 

A drummer may, however, scan, 

The same as any other man. 

The situation of affairs. 

And, putting by his business cares. 

Pause for a while to ruminate 

On life, on death, on love, on hate. 

Yes ! he, like other men, may weave 



A MODEL MAN, 481 

Strange fancies, and perhaps believe 

In their reality. Why not, 

If doing so should cheer his lot? 

To meditate is not unwise, 

And I need not apologize 

For having built, as dreamers do, 

Air castles in the ether blue : 

For having tasted of a bliss 

Not known in a world like this. 

Sometimes, as has been intimated, 

I get transcendently elated. 

Not in a bacchanalian sense : 

Nay, that were too rank an offense. 

I mentioned on the second line 

How I abhor a drink like wine ; 

That fact I would reiterate, 

I'm most abstemious — " this is straight ". 

Therefore I mean not that elation 

Arising from inebriation, 

The word as used here is " symbolic " ; 

I mean no spirits alcoholic. 

I speak of spirits to be sure, 

But ah ! they are those sweet and pure 

Emotions of the soul within, 

Free from all grossness and from sin: 

The subtly sweet esthetic kind — 

The exaltation of the mind. 

The rapture of a hope which fills 

One's being with ecstatic thrills : 

A soul, look you, in whose depth lies 

A dawning sense of paradise : 

The sentiments so true and real 

Which only higher mortals feel. 

Ah ! would it smack of vanity 



482 A MODEL MAN. 

Were I to say they come to me? 

I've felt their force — the force of these 

Rare sentiments. Beneath a tree's 

Cool shade in spring I've sat and found, 

While gazing on the scene aromid, 

A joy and peace I may not tell. 

Ah yes ! and I remember well 

Days (happy days they were to me) 

Spent by the ever-sounding sea, 

Days of a summer that were blest 

By one whose friendship I possessed : 

My gentle friend of days long gone, 

And now — I mourn: yes, now I mourn. 

I mourn, as you again infer, 

Because of her, because of her. 

But it is not all grief with me, 

My friend still lives — in memory. 

I see her now, I clasp her hand, 

I walk with her along the strand, 

I hear again her glad, low voice — 

And I rejoice ; yes, I rejoice. 

The past — in thought — again is mine. 

Need I repine? Need I repine? 

My memory is haunted by 

The spirit of dead days. Yes, I 

Here in the gloom do mind me when 

I dreamt love's dream; and now again 

I dream, but not as once I did 

In hopeful years : yet still, amid 

Life's later cares and duties, may 

Not hopes and dreams illume our way? 

And so, in soberer manner, I 

Now hope and dream. Perchance a sigh 

Escapes my lips sometimes — ah, well ! 



A MODEL MAN. 483 

The cause of it I need not tell. 

Sighs are not always notes of woe. 

A longing sad yet sweet may show 

Its presence by a sigh : and who 

Would wish such longings stilled? How true 

It is that we ofttimes find more 

Of happiness in longing for 

An object than we seem to gain 

By its possession. Joy and pain 

Are strangely joined. Anticipation 

Means more than does realization : 

There is in one a sweet unrest 

That adds to life a buoyant zest. 

To have, to gobble up, to sit 

Surfeited at Life's feast — well, it 

Is not, methinks, the happier lot. 

But hold, but hold ! Ah, is it not 

Wrongful — most wrongful thus to let 

These thronging sentiments upset 

My calmer purpose? I should strive 

To check their sweep. Yet I derive 

A pleasure in their unchecked course: 

For O, look you, I feel their force — 

The force, as I have said, of these 

Rare sentiments. Beans, corn, peas, 

Spices, commissions, dollars, cents 

Cannot efface such sentiments : 

Cannot blot out that cherished store 

Of finer thoughts from my mind's core. 

And now to close: the hours have sped; 

It getteth late, I must to bed. 

Too long I've dallied with the Muse: 

Yet who will blame, who will abuse 

A plain, commercial man this night 



484 A MODEL MAN. 

Because of his poetic flight? 
I have been frank, sincere and bold, 
And now my tale is almost told ; 
I've let my fancy stray, and much 
I've said about myself ; if such 
Has interested, well and good. 
Now, lest I be misunderstood, 
I mention that 'twas with the best 
Of feeling I my thoughts expressed. 
If I have wounded any one 
By aught I've written, said or done, 
I ask forgiveness. If I've play'd 
The critic's part, and, mayhap, made 
My strictures too severely strong, 
I crave a pardon for the wrong. 
In my room's quietude, where none 
Intruded, I perhaps have spun 
Too long a tale : well, it is one 
That has been told, for I have done. 
It is with kindliest thoughts I dwell 
Upon the closing word — Farewell. 



NO MOURNING. 485 

I must, because of advanced age, 
Soon make my exit from life's stage. 

I'll hate to part 
From the Muse ; leaving her, I'll find, 
Rather distressing; I won't mind 

Leaving Trade's mart. 

In neither world — the world of trade 
Nor that of Poesy — have I made 

As yet a hit ; 
And few, few women and few men 
Will miss me — really miss me when 

These worlds I quit. 

No one will care — not any one, 
"When I" (to quote from Tennyson) 

Put out to sea." 
It grieves me to know this, but still 
'Twere best perhaps that no one will 

E'er mourn for me. 



SEEDSMEN AND POETS. 

Business and rhyming-men may thrive 
When I no longer am alive. 

Vast fortunes may 
Be made by seedsmen, also by 
The world's aspiring bards when I 

Have passed away. 

'Twill please me more than otherwise 
To know when I'm in Paradise, 

Or Jericho, 
As it may happen, that seedsmen 
As well as poets may e'en then 

Gain fame and — dough. 

My being absent from the scene 
Will not in anyway, I ween, 

[" I ween " sounds well] 
Grieve other bards and seedsmen. Who 
Cares where it be that I go to — 

Heaven or hell? 



486 UNCOMMITTED SINS. 

If I had wanted to I could 

Have penned more sonnets, odes and lays ; 
But I forbore. I think I should, 

In consequence, receive some praise. 

I might have perpetrated more 
Verses, but I desisted though : 

Or, as has been said, I " forbore ". 
Hence I deserve some praise, I know. 

Sins uncommitted — those that are 

Suppressed by our own will force — may 

Plead loudly for us at the bar 
Of justice on a future day. 

Though often tempted to outpour 
My soul in song in those tense days 

When I kept books, yet I forbore. 

Such self-restraint was worth some praise. 

Now I'm too old to hum the airs 
That visited my soul one time. 

The passing years with all their cares 
Nip, as it were, the roots of rhyme. 

Romance and love and sentiment 

Must in youth's day on business wait. 

When youth has gone the years prevent 
Our testing life's joys. Such is fate! 

Yet I have no regrets ; nay, none. 

Life! I've enjoyed it; yes, and I 
Enjoy it still ; 'twill soon be done. 

But I am not afraid to die. 

I'm pleased to think that I displayed 
Such self-restraint in bygone days. 

Duty, not Love's call, I obeyed. 
Yes, really, I deserve some praise. 



TIME TO STOP. 487 

True, I at odd times sang of love ; 

My heart ne'er felt the strange thrill, though, 
Of love's full force. I but sang of 

That which 'twas never mine to know. 

I academically dealt 

With the great subject ; though 'tis true 
There have been times when I have felt 

That I could love as others do. 

I acted wisely. I forswore 

Love and its lures in youth's wild days. 
And so, as I have said before, 

I certainly deserve some praise. 

Yet sometimes I am conscious of 

A want I cannot well define — 
The loss of something (is it love?) 

That never was nor can be mine. 

But whyfore be downcast in these 

Comparatively peaceful days? 
Alone I sailed life's storm-swept seas. 

And now — now I deserve some praise. 



TIME TO STOP. 

Being the writer's final farewell to the Muse. 

I'm now more elderly than when 

I worked (and rhymed) in that seed shop. 

I can't write verse as I did then ; 
I am too old ; 'tis time to stop. 

To part from the Muse ! O ! it wrings 

A poet's heart : the tears I drop 
Would drown a world. Of all sad things 

The saddest — nay, 'tis time to stop. 

Farewell, O Muse ! The dreams are o'er 
Which I once dreamt in that seed shop. 

I'd like to rhyme a little more 

Just here — but no, 'tis time to stop. 



488 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

Though I have always been a clerk 

And bookkeeper, I never had 
A special love for office work ; 

Something about it made me sad. 

To add interminable rows 

Of figures, to make bills, to strike 

The balances — such things as those 
I do not altogether like. 

I ne'er did care for business or 

For any mercantile pursuits. 
Yet many years I kept books for 

A wholesaler in nuts and fruits. 

I never had the nerve to break 

From office trammels. Weak of will 

And mediocre, I could make 

No progress. I merely stood still. 

And life — bright, glorious life swept by 
The while I burrowed in a store, 

And I beheld the friends of my 

Youth gain the prizes they strove for. 

Some gained renown, and others wealth. 

Ah well ! can one his fate control ? 
Gee ! I'm unburdening myself. 

Confession's good, though, for the soul. 

Yes, I am frank. But then why not 

Be frank? I suffer no regret. 
I am contented with my lot. 

And — well, I may be happy yet. 

There is in mediocrity 

No crime. At a desk I worked two 
Score years most conscientiously. 

I did the very best I knew. 

From candy, nuts and fruits I went 

Into the floricultural line ; 
But in a seed establishment 

'Twas not intended I should shine. 

I'm not in fruits now, nor in seeds, 
Nor in aught else at present. I'm 

Just looking for a firm that needs 

A clerk who keeps books and can — rhyme. 



LAST LINES. 489 

" Now, we part, 
My songs and I. We part, and what remains? 
Perchance an echo, and perchance no more." 

— Owen Meredith. 

I wrote Thyme for rhjmie's sake ; 

I knew I could 
By writing it ne'er make 

A livelihood. 

To me it was a fad, 

And nothing more; 
In Poesy's realm I had 

No right to soar. 

Rhjoning to very few 

Proves lucrative; 
For me it would not do ; 

I had to live. 

And so I worked — well, I, 

That is to say. 
Kept books down town till my 

Hair became gray. 

And yet a lifetime spent 

On trade's stern mart 
Ne'er has caused sentiment 

To quit my heart. 

The rhyming knack I had, 

Also, it seems, 
A habit — which was bad — 

Of dreaming dreams. 

Dreams ! dreams ! Mere dreams. But then 

How fair they were! 
Who would have blamed me when 

I dreamed of her? 



490 LAST LINES. 



Those dreams ! They brought to me 

The joy of hope. 
No, I could never be 

A misanthrope. 

Contentedly, down town, 

At keeping books, 
I worked, despite Fate's frown 

And coldest looks. 

Time passed ; youth's heyday waned 

And died; life nears 
Its end now. Hope sustained 

Me through the years. 

Hope ! Ah ! her song yet stirs 

My soul ; I hear 
Again that voice of hers ; 

It still is dear. 

Hope of — I know not what. 

A rest from care ; 
Something to bless one's lot 

Here — or elsewhere. 

And these vague dreamings of 

A better state 
On earth here or above. 

They kept me straight. 

Not that rewards cajole 

Or penalties 
Affright the average soul 

In days like these. 

If I have acted square 

'Twas not — well, let's 
Say not because of fair 

Words or loud threats. 



LAST LINES. 491 

I acted just as I 

Did — no, I'll drop 
This subject; 'tis too dry. 

I'd better stop. 

Things occult I'll cut out; 

None cares to read 
Dreary remarks about 

A chosen creed. 

It shows a want of tact 

To dogmatize 
On these last leaves ; in fact, 

It is unwise. 

Yet is it very wrong 

To muse o'er things 
And listen to that song 

Which fair Hope sings? 

Oft in the summer, at 

The twilight time 
Of a fair day, I've sat 

Me down to rhyme. 

And on vacations when 

A view I caught 
Of the wild sea, ah ! then 

The Muse I sought. 

Rare moments there have been 

When I've learned of 
Those joys that follow in 

The wake of love. 

Beyond the city streets 

My soul has flown. 
Yes, life's supremest sweets 

At times I've known. 



492 LAST LINES. 

The products of my muse, 
Now gathered here, 

Who will care to peruse? 
But few, I fear. 

The world's loss would be small, 

So I opine, 
Were I to burn up all 

This verse of mine. 

And yet 'twas not to please 

The world I took 
The pains I did with these 

Rh5Tnes in this book. 

True poetry lovers care 

Not to peruse 
Verse in which tyros air 

Their shallow views. 

Well, I too, I confess. 
Love verse, but know 

My limitations; yes, 
No one more so. 

Yet I wrote verses ! Why, 

Some one may ask. 
O just — er — because I — 

Er — liked the task. 

For rhyme's sake, as I've said, 
I wrote these rhymes. 

[Will she, when I am dead. 
Read them — sometimes?] 

Rhyming appears to me 
Harmless. Why twit 

Those, then, who chance to be 
Engaged in it? 



LAST LINES. 493 

Sore? By no means. Whyfore? 
This bantering wit 
I took in good part. Sore? 
No, not a bit. 

I got off verses to 

Simply kill time. 
The world would not, I knew. 

Care for my rhyme. 

Still, having done the same, 

I'll not consign 
To the devouring flame 

This book of mine. 

My verse, I'm free to state, 

Perhaps is what 
Some might denominate 

As rhythmic rot. 

Nought in unkindness, though, 

Is herein penned ; 
I have lampooned no foe. 

Much less a friend. 

I have been frank — also 

Sincere. I might 
Have erred at times ; few, though, 

Are always right. 

Regrets? I need feel none. 

What I have said 
Will, really, harm no one 

When it is read. 

My rhymes may be thought poor 

And void of charm ; 
But they can not, I'm sure. 

Do any harm. 



494 LAST LINES. 

She whom, in dreams, I love 

Perhaps may look 
Within the covers of 

My little book. 

Many a foolish line 
She'll find ; but here 

And there, though, Love's divine 
Truth will appear. 

Hence, when she glances through 
These pages, she — 

My dreamlove — may learn to 
Love — yes, love me! 

If this prove so, I need 

Not hanker for 
The world's praise; no, indeed; 

Hers is worth more. 



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